Khazarg had just parted ways with Leon, grunting something about needing to retrieve a few things from his tent. "It won’t take long, maybe an hour," he’d said before disappearing into the maze of tents, his large frame fading into the mix of furs and smoke.

Leon stood still for a moment, unsure of what to do next. His gaze followed Khazarg’s retreating figure, and a nagging thought tugged at the back of his mind. He replayed the last few days over in his head.

There was something about Kraka and Khazarg that had been bothering him, but he hadn’t fully registered it until now.

The eyes. They both had the same eyes—those sharp, piercing pale eyes, cold like the winter sky. He hadn’t noticed it at first, but now that he had seen them together, it was glaring. Leon frowned, wondering what it could mean. Maybe they were related?

He shook his head, deciding to let the thought linger for now. He would ask Khazarg about it later. For the moment, he had some time to kill.

With a sigh, Leon decided to search for Varra. He hadn’t seen her in a while, and with everything that had happened—his sudden appearance in this strange world, his brushes with death, and the constant tension of navigating the Gnoll tribe—he felt a need for some familiarity.

Even if Varra wasn’t from his world, she was the closest thing to a constant presence he had here. Aside from Khazarg, of course.

The camp around him buzzed with activity. Gnolls moved in and out of tents, some sharpening weapons, others preparing food. The air was thick with the scent of roasting meat, damp fur, and the lingering smoke from the central bonfire that never seemed to go out. Everywhere he looked, gnolls were either working or socializing, their guttural language filling the air in a chaotic symphony of snarls and growls.

As he wandered, Leon’s search for Varra led him through narrow paths between the sprawling yurts. His eyes scanned the bustling camp, hoping to catch a glimpse of her familiar form. However, instead of Varra, he stumbled across someone else.

“Leon!” Barg’s wide grin split his face as he clapped Leon on the back, nearly knocking the breath out of him. “Looking for Varra, eh? She’s off doing something important. Come with me instead.”

Before Leon could protest, Barg had dragged him along, leading him to a large yurt that stood apart from the others, louder and livelier. The smell of cooked meat and the sound of laughter and song poured from within.

“This,” Barg said, his voice full of pride, “is our tavern. Come on, you’ve earned a drink.”

Leon hesitated at the entrance. The yurt was filled with Gnolls of all shapes and sizes, drinking, laughing, and bellowing songs in their guttural language. It reminded him of the rowdy bars back home, but much wilder. Still, something about the atmosphere was inviting, and Barg’s enthusiasm was infectious.

Inside, a large Gnoll stood behind a makeshift bar, cleaning a wooden mug with a rag. His fur was darker than most, his belly round despite the land’s harsh conditions, and his golden eyes twinkling with good-natured humor. He noticed Leon immediately.

“Well, well, well, if it ain’t the human everyone’s been yappin’ about,” the Gnoll said, his deep voice booming. “Borog’s the name, lad. [Tribal Innkeeper]. What’ll it be?”

Leon shrugged, unsure of how things worked in the camp. “I...uh, I’m not sure. What do you have?”

Borog raised an eyebrow and leaned forward, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “Ye got five copper coins, human?”

Leon blinked, caught off guard by the sudden seriousness. He opened his mouth to answer but paused, unsure. He had never thought about it before, but he had absolutely no money.

Then Borog threw his head back and laughed heartily, the sound causing several nearby Gnolls to join in.

“Ahaha! Relax, lad! Jokin’, jokin’! We don’t be usin’ money ‘round here. Everythin’s shared in th’ tribe. Ye want a drink? ‘S on the house!” He waved to a young Gnoll darting between tables, servin’ mugs. “Oi! Boy! Get over here, meet the human. This here’s Leon.”

The young Gnoll scurried over, eyes wide as saucers, curious. Borog clapped a big paw on the boy’s back. “This be my son, Kraff. He’ll be servin’ ye, if ye need more.”

Kraff gave Leon a shy nod before runnin’ off again. Borog turned back to Leon with a sly wink. “Now, ye hold on a sec, lad. I got somethin’ real special for ya.”

With a flick of his wrist, Borog seemed to conjure a flask outta nowhere, pourin’ a rich, blue liquid into a wooden mug.

“Here y’are, my finest brew. We call it Winter’s Bite. Only th’ best for ye, eh? Comes in handy, this skill of mine. [Special Alcohol Stash],” he said, tappin’ the side of his nose with a claw and winkin’ again.

Leon chuckled as he took the mug, the rich smell of the drink hitting his senses. He raised it to his lips and took a deep sip. The alcohol burned pleasantly, spreading warmth through his chest, and for a moment, the heat was almost enough to make him want to shed his heavy fur-lined cloak.

The thick, dark material had kept him warm against the biting and freezing winds, but here in the Gnoll’s firelit yurt, it felt almost too much. He tugged at the collar, loosening it slightly, though he kept it on for now.

Barg clapped him on the shoulder. “Good, huh? Borog makes the best.”

Leon nodded, still savoring the taste, but they were both still standing in the middle of the lively yurt. Gnolls crowded around tables, singing and drinking, the noise of the place almost as intoxicating as the drink.

“Come on,” Barg said, motioning to an empty table in the corner. “Let’s grab a seat before all the good spots are taken.”

Leon followed him through the bustling crowd, weaving between tables until they reached the corner. They sat down, the heavy wooden benches creaking under their weight. Barg took a long drink from his mug and slammed it down with a contented sigh.

As they settled into their drinks, the warmth of the tavern and the friendliness of the Gnolls around them eased Leon’s worries.

But that peace was short-lived. The yurt’s door swung open, and two hulking figures entered—Nogg and Brakk. Leon tensed at the sight of them, his mood darkening in an instant. The two Gnolls had been antagonistic toward him since the start, constantly testing him, pushing his buttons.

Norg’s eyes immediately locked onto Leon, a smirk curling his lips. “Well, well, look who’s here. Our little human friend, getting cozy.”

Leon felt a surge of anger rises in his chest. He tried to push it down, but the alcohol he had consumed made it harder to control. His hands tightened around his mug as Nogg and Brakk approached.

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“What’s with that look, human?” Brakk sneered. “Feeling tough now that you’ve got a drink in you?”

Leon stood, the tension in his muscles growing. His vision blurred slightly as the alcohol buzzed in his veins. Barg said something to try and calm the situation, but Leon barely heard him. The anger roared louder.

Nogg walked up to their table, looming with a smirk. “Why don’t we see how tough you really are?”

Leon was ready to lash out, muscles tensing, but Borog’s deep voice cut through the rising tension. “Enough!” Borog’s eyes flickered with concern as he glanced toward his son, who watched nervously from behind the bar. “This is a place for drinking and singing, not fighting.”

Nogg ignored the warning, taking another step forward, eyes locked on Leon, who was now fully on his feet, shoulders squared. The moment stretched dangerously thin, each second pushing them closer to blows.

The tension in the yurt was thick, suffocating, as eyes darted between the two, anticipating the first blow. Borog made to intervene again, but it was clear his authority alone wouldn’t stop them. Leon and Nogg were teetering on the edge of violence.

But before the inevitable clash, the yurt’s entrance opened, and Varra, followed by pale Khazarg, stepped inside.

Immediately, a sudden stillness gripped the entire room.

Khazarg didn’t shout; he didn’t need to. His deep voice rumbled through the room like distant thunder. “Sit down.”

Nogg and Brakk froze, the heat draining from their aggression. Nogg slowly backed off, followed by his mentor, retreating to the other side of the yurt. Leon, fists still clenched, rage still boiling under his skin, hesitated. But under Khazarg’s unblinking gaze, he lowered himself back to his seat.

Leon exhaled sharply, his heart still pounding in his chest as his eyes followed Nogg and Brakk to their corner of the room. For a second, he couldn’t shake the feeling of the fight almost happening, his blood still running hot. He tried to focus, pulling himself back to the present, but it took effort to rein in the anger, to let the fury slip away.

Khazarg’s heavy steps approached, and Leon’s attention snapped to the towering figure now standing in front of him. Khazarg’s scowl was deep, the weight of his disappointment even deeper. “No more alcohol for you. Not until you’ve learned to control yourself. Completely. Or until you’ve earned the [Alcohol Immunity] Skill.”

Leon opened his mouth to protest, but Khazarg’s eyes narrowed. “Even with all your training, they would have destroyed you, boy. Both of them are far beyond your level.” His words hit Leon like a cold slap, deflating the remaining anger in his chest.

As Khazarg stood there, his presence filling the room, he finally lowered himself onto a nearby stool. The old wooden thing creaked ominously under his weight, barely able to withstand it.

Noticing the strain on the stool, Borog quickly scrambled to fetch a sturdier one, returning swiftly to push a larger, reinforced stool next to Khazarg. Khazarg glanced at Borog, a flicker of acknowledgment crossing his otherwise hard features. “Thank you, Borog,” he rumbled, the gratitude gruff but genuine.

The [Tribal Innkeeper] nodded, visibly relieved once the weight shifted off the creaking wood.

As the night wore on, Khazarg, Varra, Barg, and Leon lingered in easy conversation, their voices low in the tavern’s dim light. Though Khazarg stayed mostly silent, Leon could tell he was savoring the moment. The usually solitary berserker, who so often kept to himself, seemed quietly drawn to the warmth of shared company. Seeing him like this pleased Leon; he knew Khazarg often felt lonely, even if he never let it show.

Then, at a certain point in the evening, he turned to Leon, a subtle shift in his expression, and asked him something unexpected.

“How long have you been here with us, Leon?”

Caught off guard, Leon hesitated. “I'm... not really sure," he replied.

Varra leaned forward, a small smirk playing at her lips. “It’s the 27th of Farnew,” she said, mentioning the month’s name with certainty. Her eyes sparkled as she glanced at the others before returning to Leon. “In four days, it’ll have been exactly one month since you joined us.”

Leon didn’t move, absorbing the realization. Nearly a month. It hadn’t felt nearly that long.

Still processing how quickly time had passed, Leon turned to Varra with a curious look. “Could you teach me your calendar here? I want to understand it better—see how it matches with the one we use…” He hesitated, glancing briefly at Khazarg and Barg’s watchful expressions, “...back home. I was supposed to go over it with Kallia in one of our lessons, but… well, with what happened, we didn’t exactly get the chance.”

Varra grinned, nodding. "Of course. Our month now is Farnew. It has thirty-one days."

"Farnew... February," Leon muttered, making a mental note of the extra days.

However, Borealis knew only winter, and these months marked time not through changing seasons, but through the subtle shifts in the depth of the cold and the quiet resilience of life here—a calendar established long before the continent was frozen in its eternal winter.

As Varra continued, Leon focused, mapping each name she provided to the familiar months of his own world, one by one.

After Farnew, their February, came Windcrest, similar to March, then Skyfall for April, Greenhold for May, and Brightsun for June. Next came Stormrise, Fireleaf, and Amberfall—their July, August, and September. After that, Darkbloom aligned with October, Frostwake with November, and finally Snowmorn and Icemelt, which rounded out the year like December and January.

He learned that this calendar had been established long before Borealis became locked in winter’s grasp. Though the continent now knew only a single season, its people marked time by subtle shifts in the depth of the cold and the resilient persistence of life beneath its frozen skies.

Moreover, unlike Earth's 365-day cycle, the Borealis year consisted of 400 days, with each month containing two or three additional days compared to its earthly counterparts, and each day extending to a full 27 hours instead of the usual 24 on Earth.

As Leon absorbed this knowledge, Khazarg asked him another question, his demeanor shifting to something more serious. “What is your name, Leon?”

Leon blinked, confused. “You already know my name.”

Khazarg shook his head. “No, I know your first name. But humans always have two names. I’ve fought alongside your kind before—adventurers. So, what is yours?”

Barg and Varra watched him curiously as Leon hesitated. The question brought a wave of emotion he wasn’t prepared for. His family—his past—came flooding back. His chest tightened, and for the first time in a long while, he felt the sharp sting of homesickness.

“My name is... Leon Cielmont,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. As soon as the words left his lips, memories of his family rushed back to him, and he struggled to keep his composure.

Varra, sensing his distress, placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. Leon took a shaky breath, calming himself.

“Why do you ask?” Leon finally managed to ask, his voice quiet. “I mean, why now?”

Khazarg’s expression turned somber, his eyes dark with something old and heavy. “Because if we fight together… and if you die,” he said bluntly, “I want to remember your name.”

The room around Leon seemed to fade for a moment. Khazarg’s words were a stark reminder of the danger ahead, each one laced with a blunt, heavy truth. Barg and Varra exchanged uneasy glances, their confusion evident. But Khazarg offered no explanation, and Leon kept silent, watching as they hesitated to ask.

They didn’t yet know that war was coming—something Kraka would reveal to all come morning. Leon just had to hold on until then.

He pushed the thought away. Right now, he wanted to savor this moment, where he was surrounded by people who, knowingly or not, had pulled him from his own solitude. Back on Earth, he didn’t have many friends.

Just then, Kraff, the tavern keeper’s son, appeared at their table, barely tall enough to peek over its edge as he eyed their empty cups—Barg had polished off Leon’s. “Another round?” he asked, his cheerful tone slicing through the tension, his youthful energy lifting the mood just enough for them to nod in agreement.

Barg managed a faint smile. “Yes, please, Kraff.”

None of them slept that night. Khazarg, having finally allowed Leon to drink freely, remained beside them, his watchful gaze ensuring that nothing would go awry. He thought they could use it.