The world has become a blur of white, an endless expanse of snow and ice stretching as far as I can see. Each step is a monumental effort against the raging storm and my own failing body. I can't feel my toes anymore. The realization hits me like a physical blow, a fresh wave of panic washing over my already frayed nerves. Frostbite. The word echoes in my mind, a grim harbinger of what's to come if I don't reach Valkirior's Central City soon.

"Keep moving," I mutter through cracked, bleeding lips. My voice is barely audible over the howling wind, but I cling to the sound, using it as an anchor against the encroaching numbness. "They're counting on you. You can't stop now."

My father's face flashes in my mind—once strong and vibrant, now pale with illness. And my brother, too young to understand the gravity of our situation, but old enough to feel the biting cold that seeps through the walls of our home. They need me.

They need the Emberstone…

I take another step, my leg shaking with the effort. The snow has piled up past my knees, each movement a battle against exhaustion and the growing weakness in my limbs. The rifle on my back, once a comforting weight, now feels like it's dragging me down into the frozen depths.

"Just a little further," I gasp, the words becoming a mantra, a desperate prayer to whatever forces might be listening. "Just a little further, and then you can rest."

But even as I speak, I know it's a lie. There will be no rest, not until I have the Emberstone in my hands and I'm on my way back home. The thought of failure is unthinkable, a fate worse than the cold that gnaws at my bones. 

I stumble, my numb feet catching on something hidden beneath the snow. For a terrifying moment, I wobble on the edge of falling, my arms windmilling wildly as I fight to keep my balance. If I fall now, I'm not sure I'll have the strength to get back up.

Somehow, through sheer force of will, I manage to stay upright. But the near-fall has cost me, sapping what little energy I had left. My legs feel like lead, each step requiring more effort than the last. The cold has seeped into every part of me, an insidious presence that dulls my senses and clouds my thoughts.

"No," I growl, clenching my fists inside my frozen gloves. "Not yet…"

I force myself to take another step, and then another. Each one is a small victory against the storm, against my own failing body. But with every passing moment, those victories become harder to achieve. The numbness is spreading, creeping up my legs and into my core. Even breathing has become a challenge, the frigid air burning in my lungs with each labored intake.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

Time loses all meaning in the whiteout. Have I been walking for hours? Days? It feels like an eternity since I left home, since I felt anything but cold and pain. The city has to be close… It has to be. But no matter how hard I squint through my frosted goggles, I can see nothing but swirling snow in every direction.

My foot catches again, and this time, I can't catch myself. I fall face-first into the snow, the impact knocking what little air I have from my lungs. For a moment, I lay there, the cold seeping through my clothes, into my very bones. The temptation to just stay there, to let the snow cover me and bring an end to my suffering, is almost overwhelming.

"Get up," I wheeze, my words muffled by the snow.

With a herculean effort, I push myself to my hands and knees. My arms shake violently, threatening to give out at any moment. But I can't stop. I won't stop. Not when I'm so close. Not when lives depend on me.

Inch by agonizing inch, I force myself back to my feet. The world spins around me, a dizzying kaleidoscope of white and gray. I sway unsteadily, fighting to keep my balance against the relentless wind.

"Just... a little... further," I pant, each word a battle against chattering teeth and numb lips.

I take a step forward, my leg barely responding to my commands. Another step. And another. Each one feels like it might be my last, my body screaming for me to stop, to rest, to give in to the cold that has become my entire world.

But I can't. My father's illness, my brother's innocent face—these images drive me forward when nothing else can. They need me to be strong. They need me to succeed where others have failed.

The storm intensifies, as if sensing my determination and rising to meet it. Snow and ice pelt my face, finding every gap in my defenses. I can barely see a foot in front of me now, the world reduced to a howling void of white.

And then, through the chaos of the blizzard, I see something. A shape, darker than the surrounding snow, moving towards me. My heart leaps in my chest, a surge of hope giving me strength I didn't know I had left.

The figure draws closer, its features indistinct in the swirling snow. For a moment, just a moment, I think I recognize the shape—the gentle curve of a shoulder, the familiar tilt of a head.

"Mother?" The word escapes my lips unbidden, a desperate hope born of exhaustion and cold.

I reach out towards the approaching figure, my arm shaking with the effort. My vision blurs, darkness creeping in at the edges. The cold has won, finally, its icy tendrils wrapping around my heart.

As consciousness slips away, I manage one last, desperate whisper:

"Just... a little... further..."