She could manage the cold. There had been worse before, there would be worse yet. All one had to do was persevere.

Or so Petra tried to convince herself. The frigid wind howled all around her as she struggled to light a fire in the exposed alcove. Just a little bit of heat, something to warm her stiffened fingers. A tiny comfort. The small pile of kindling before her seemed a piteous sight, and even so she wasn't able to set the dried wood ablaze.

"C'mon. Light up. Just a little," she muttered softly to herself, willing the pile to set alight.

It remained as dead as the surrounding woodland.

She could see her breath coalescing in the night air, puffs of steam dissipating with every exhalation. The tips of her fingers were going numb, threadbare cloth wrappings doing little to mitigate the frosty night.

"Dear God, just give me something," she pleaded softly, blowing into cupped palms and rubbing her hands together.

Why did it have to be so cold? So, so cold.

Petra sniffled and sighed, staring at the small stack of kindling before her with a sunken eye. She turned to the flint and steel in her hand, utterly dejected.

She struck them together once more, watching the sparks fly in the murky darkness.

Nothing. The woman shuddered and tweaked her nose, trying to rub some sense of feeling into the frozen flesh.

"God help me," she whispered miserably, "God help me."

She pulled her cloak tighter, trying to keep out the wind. It was a losing battle. The snow whipped fiercely around the alcove, flakes dissipating as they struck her skin.

Her teeth ground together painfully as she tried to stop them from chattering. If only she had pressed on, perhaps she would have reached Loseine already. Perhaps it had all been a costly mistake. She was shivering uncontrollably, and night had only begun to set in. There was no time to search for a new camp site, nor to seek a better shelter. The tiny alcove would have to do.

So she struggled and waited, trying desperately to set her fire alight.

Another spark in the void, another failure.

Petra's lower lip trembled, and not from the cold. She was too tired, too exhausted. There was no point to such a fruitless fight.

Petra frowned intently. There had been worse before.

Grimacing, she shifted her body, trying to better shield the pile from the wind. Flint struck steel. Sparks flew. Nothing.

Again and again she struck the pieces together, watching sparks fly and illuminate the pitch black night.

"Light. Come on," she urged, beseeching the dead wood for some pity.

Another spark into nothingness. Then fire.

Petra smiled to herself slightly as a small flame leaped from the kindling, licking at the branches arrayed above.

She sighed contentedly, shifting atop the stone-strewn ground.

The fire cast a faint light across the area about her, projecting ghastly shadows on the dead trees. She glanced about warily and hunched down low, drawing closer to the flame in search of warmth. The frigid wind pierced her cloak as if it weren't there, seeking to rob her of what little comfort the fire afforded her.

Petra frowned and curled up into a tight ball, drawing ever nearer to the fire, even as her teeth continued to chatter, causing her to grind them together in an effort to stop the involuntary motion. Her stomach gurgled and growled, giving voice to the young archivist's gnawing hunger. Shaking hands reached out toward the small light before her, grasping for the sliver of warmth. She rubbed her palms together, wincing as the pinpricks of feeling returned to frozen fingers.

Stolen novel; please report.

The wind seemed to only pick up its pace, howling ever more strongly as if incensed by her efforts to avoid its frigid touch. Petra pulled her cloak tighter and opened her satchel, searching about for what meager scraps of food remained. Her lips drew into a tight line, as she eyed its contents, disappointment all too clear in her eye. What she had expected to find, she was unsure, but stale bread and toughened jerky was a rather miserly fare. With a shake of her head, the grimace of disappointment vanished. One had to be grateful for what they had. Setting her hands down on the sides of the satchel, Petra closed her eye.

“I give my thanks, Lord, for your kindness, your mercy, and all the blessings with which I am graced.”

Without hesitation, she tore off a small piece of bread and tossed it into the pyre, watching the insignificant sacrifice shrivel and vanish in the flame. Smiling slightly the archivist chewed thoughtfully on what remained, adjusting herself in an effort to find a more comfortable position.

“Thank you God,” she repeated.

There was hope yet.

She glanced back across at the Black Book, protruding from its protective case within her satchel. To think it would all be over. She once more withdrew the text, fingers dancing across age stained pages.

It was fascinating, the way the script flowed, changing from one long-dead author to the next. An etymologist's gold mine. Every shift in phrase and manner recorded for centuries. The dry, clerical script of Arnim followed by the colorful embellishment of Gorsun. The excited, heavily annotated writings of master Archivist Rikard. A single tear rolled down her cheek as she traced his handwriting. And then her own. Unfit for the duty, yet all that remained. She wondered how her own additions would be judged.

Grand Master Lon Sonnac – Hanged for high treason in Trajena Prison on the 15th of Troi, 1254. The first snows had not yet fallen.

Simple, efficient, perhaps. Her fingers followed the ledger's remaining pages as she re-examined her writing. The last few pages scrawled in ink of varying quality, diluted and unimpressive.

Hunter Horath Seine – Shot while fleeing to Frolingen. 43rd of Merz, 1255.

The old veteran had been the last survivor of Fortress Dastrier. An annotation would need to be made.

Her fingers trembled as she reached the final page. Frolingen. A bleak month, the coup-de-grace to what was left of their order.

Hunter Leonard Guerre – Slain by saboteurs, 18th of Troi, 1257.

Hunter-Captain Ludwig Dreyss – Killed by artillery at Drant, 34th of Troi, 1257.

If only he had survived. Dreyss had been Sonnac's successor in all but name, if any man had the capability-

Petra grimaced and shook her head. All pointless speculation, what was done was done. She took another bite out of the bread in her hand and continued reading.

Hunter Tobias Blucher – Run down by Astanian Cavalry at Drant, 35th of Troi, 1257.

So many dead. All for a pointless last stand. She tried to remember their faces, some had scarcely shown up at Rauheim. Had Blucher ever come to Rauheim? Perhaps not. And now none who would have remembered him lived.

Hunter Roland Arnow – Slain while fleeing through the swamps of Frolingen forest after the battle of Drant. Dead on the night of the 35th into the 36th of Troi, 1257.

Him she could remember. Rikard and Trassin had both called the man Dreyss' folly. A cavalry officer washed out for murder, and a sure sign of their orders decline. The thought of their disapproving faces at the sight of the man almost made her chuckle.

She tossed another small branch into the dying fire, watching the merry flames flicker up once more, briefly surging as the wood was consumed. Then Peter, then Sauer.

And Albert.

And now there were none, their last deeds scarcely recorded, etched hastily in her own writing, given barely a fraction of the respect deserved. Petra sighed and rubbed the Malthorian cross hanging about her neck.

The woman became dimly aware of the frigid chill against her spine, soaking through where the fire's warmth could not reach. Would it be worth it? What posterity would there be if the black book was lost and buried, and all the orders adherents vanished into obscurity?

Yet why ponder? The archivist's brows drew together in concentration, her eye gleaming as she slid the tome shut. She had her duty, and by God's will would see it done.

The fire danced and flickered as the wind rushed past, the mournful dirge washing through the land about her. Petra sat and listened. There was naught more to do by the dying firelight. It was not only the wind making noise, something else howled in the darkness. There would be worse yet. She fumbled through her satchel, eyes darting back and forth among the trees.

“Dear God,” she muttered, drawing a battered cooking knife from its sheath.

The pitted steel seemed to flicker and warp in the dying light. Another howl, echoing further off in the distance.

There weren't supposed to be wolves this far south. Why oh why? Why must it be worse? The woman bit her lip and searched for shelter in the alcove. A place to back up against. She had to remain calm. Wolves feared fire, and they rarely approached humans. The fire was dying. Loseine couldn't have been that far, if only she had pressed on. Her mind raced, the blade before her wavering as she tried to focus. The wind seemed to still, allowing the embers in the fire pit to wink out on their own accord. One by one. Another cry, echoing the first, carrying from the hills behind her. Baying to her right, closer and closer. Petra clenched her teeth and drew her mouth tight, denying the hiss of fear threatening to escape. The predatory growls seemed to ricochet all about the blackened woodland.

It was cold, so bitterly cold. The archivist scarcely dared to breathe. Back and forth. Her head swung to and fro, free hand clawing at the snow covered rock behind her, the frost sending pinpricks through her limbs as the flakes melted against exposed flesh. Her eyes strayed upward, the inky night offering no salvation.

Not like this. Not like this.

Crisp white flecks pattered down, the crinkle of their passing drawing instinctive attention.

No. No. No. No.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

The rush of footsteps. Petra froze, knife extended and awaiting the inevitable with bated breath.

Thump.

Thump.

It was was only the sound of her heart, pounding away. She blinked, feeling the tension in her locked arms loosening. She could see naught more than a few paces before her. The snow continued to fall.

“Heh,” she laughed quietly, a nervous smile touching the corner of her lips.

Petra collapsed against the small embankment behind her, dragging a deep furrow in the frozen snow with her passing. She sat in silence, reaching out and drawing the satchel close to her bosom.

It was so cold. The archivist sat and watched her breath dissipate into the void, her eye straying across the destitute remains of the fire.

The howling echoed in the distance once more. Further this time. She shifted warily in her spot, clutching the knife in her hand and continuing her silent vigil. Once more the wind was picking up.

A wary sigh escaped Petra's lips as she curled up tight, wrapping the cloak about herself as best she could, allowing little more than her eye to shine forth from its murky folds.

It would be a long, sleepless night.

There had been worse before, and there would be worse yet.