The Snow Will Keep You Warm

The party sat in silence, watching as Moroz's form shifted back into that of his true self—a looming arcanaloth with sorrow carved deep into his features. Without another word, he turned and vanished into the shadows of Blizzard’s Rest, leaving behind only the lingering weight of his plea. They did not pursue him. Exhaustion wrapped around them like the snow outside, and each found their way to sleep, though unease clung to their dreams. When morning came, the scent of warm food lured them to the great hall, where the crackling fire provided a moment’s comfort against the bitter storm still howling beyond the inn’s walls. A few other guests sat at the long wooden tables. Among them were two trappers—pale-skinned and clad in thick fur coats, their rough manner betraying their origins as Magen folk. Kilijan approached, but they responded only with mockery, laughing at his supposed ignorance of where true north lay on a map. Disheartened, he returned to his meal. Greg, meanwhile, took an interest in the large wooden plaque beside the fireplace. It was aged, darkened with time and soot, yet something about it seemed almost alive. As his fingers brushed over its surface, an embedded magic stone flared to life. A voice, deep and solemn as winter itself, echoed through the hall: "We bow to She who wears the crown; Let the world shiver with dread…" The Rime of the Frost Maiden, spoken aloud as if whispered by the storm itself. The words sent a chill down the spine of everyone present, though none spoke of it. The stone dimmed, and the hall returned to the sounds of clinking cutlery and murmured conversation.

As the party resumed their breakfast, the heavy doors to the hall swung open, sending a cold gust rushing through the room. Garimore, the brown-haired dwarven owner of Blizzard’s Rest, stomped in, his boots crusted with fresh snow. He wiped his brow and greeted the gathered guests, mentioning he had just finished shoveling the latest snowfall with his workers. The party took the opportunity to question him about the storm. Garimore simply shrugged. "The Frost Maiden is harsh but fair," he said. "She decides when the land shall be buried beneath her veil." More pressing, however, was the mystery of their own lost memories. When asked about their previous stay, Garimore was unbothered. "Aye, you lot paid for ten nights in advance—six days ago, that’d be. Whether you remember it or not, I won’t be askin’ for more coin." And as for the missing package meant for Silverfall? "I don’t hold a grudge for lost deliveries. The storm takes what it wants." Yet, even as he reassured them, the party could not shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong.

With no reason to linger, the party departed, heading north toward Silverfall. The journey, though usually a mere two-hour march, was made arduous by the relentless snow and biting winds. Their footprints vanished within moments, swallowed by the storm. It was in the deep woods that they found her—a hag, twisted and lifeless, half-buried beneath the snow. Something compelled Greg to act, and with divine magic, he willed her back to life. The hag’s eyes fluttered open, wide with terror, not at the party, but at something beyond them. A presence loomed. A hulking, owlish figure with curling horns and frost-covered feathers emerged from the trees, its piercing gaze locking onto them. Auril. The Frost Maiden spoke, her voice carrying the weight of endless winter: "Why have you undone what was already decided?" The hag, seeing her judge, wasted no time in fleeing, vanishing into the trees. Auril made no move to stop her. Instead, she turned her full wrath upon the party. The battle that followed was unlike any they had faced before. Auril shifted with the storm itself, taking on different forms, each more terrible than the last. Ice and wind howled through the forest, blinding them, isolating them. Then, in her final form, she became a massive crystal, the core of the blizzard, summoning a tempest that threatened to consume them entirely. It was Mycha who turned the tide. With a calculated move, he drew Auril away, leading her deeper into the woods, allowing the others to escape. The party regrouped and turned to run, but before they could reach him, Auril’s voice rang through the storm: "Sleep now. The snow will keep you warm." A final, devastating blow. Mycha gasped as a shard of ice, sharp as a lance, pierced through his chest. His breath came ragged, blood freezing upon his lips. He collapsed to the ground, the blizzard swallowing him whole. In the fading light of his consciousness, he heard a voice—soft, familiar. Marla. The ring she had given him burned with a warmth that defied the cold. "I found you. I finally found you." And then, silence. Snow drifted over his still form, and Mycha was no more.