Lieutenant Obren Nightsend |❄|

Obren and Rask sat shoulder to shoulder beside the firepit, its low flames snapping and sighing as if they, too, were tired of fighting the cold. The glow painted their armor in dull amber, while embers drifted upward—brief, dying stars swallowed by the endless fall of snow.

A deep sigh escaped the commander’s chest, blooming into a cloud before his face. “This weather is getting old...” Rask muttered, voice worn thin. “Two weeks straight. At this point, I’d trade a bandit raid for a clear sky.”

Obren huffed a quiet laugh, rubbing his hands together before taking another pull from his pipe. “Ain’t that the truth, brother. Gods must’ve a wager going—see how long before we freeze solid at our posts.” He paused, then added with a crooked grin, “Or lose feeling in our asses first.”

Rask’s head turned slowly, fixing him with a look perfected over years—equal parts judgment and tired patience.

Obren cleared his throat, posture straightening a fraction. “...rears.”

“Mm.” Rask’s lips twitched despite himself. He shifted, boots crunching in the frost as he stretched his legs closer to the fire. “Dignity preserved.”

A moment of quiet settled between them, filled only by the crackle of wood and the distant howl of wind clawing at the fortress walls.

“Anyway...” Rask went on, tapping ash from his pipe. “When’s the new shipment due? We’re scraping the bottom of the salt barrels, and the coal’s not far behind.”

“Tomorrow afternoon,” Obren replied, exhaling a slow stream of smoke that curled and vanished into the storm. “Assuming the road’s still there under all this. Supplies, fuel, tools...” He hesitated just long enough to be noticed. “And reinforcements.”

Rask glanced sideways. “Reinforcements.”

“Palace guard rookies,” Obren finished, as if admitting to a minor crime.

The commander stared at him, expression flattening into something dangerously calm. “Palace guard,” he repeated. “Have they seen snow before? Proper snow. Not that polite little dusting the capital gets before everyone panics and closes shop.”

Obren shrugged, though his grin returned, faint but undeniable. “They’ll learn.”

“Oh, I’m sure they will.” Rask leaned back, folding his arms as the wind picked up, sending a swirl of sparks dancing between them. “First lesson: how not to die standing still.”

“That’s a harsh curriculum.”

“This place is a harsh teacher.”

Obren chuckled under his breath, then glanced out into the blizzard, where the world beyond the firelight ceased to exist. “Still... fresh hands might mean fewer double shifts. Might even get a full night’s sleep.”

Rask snorted. “You? Sleeping? I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“Optimism doesn’t suit you, commander.”

“Neither does blind faith,” Rask shot back, though there was no bite in it. He watched the snow for a long moment, then added more quietly, “Keep an eye on them when they arrive. Cold like this... it doesn’t forgive mistakes.”

Obren’s humor faded just a touch. He nodded once. “I know.”

Another silence followed, heavier now—but not uncomfortable. The kind forged by shared winters and buried names.

After a while, Rask’s smirk returned, faint but sharp at the edges. “Still,” he murmured, glancing back at Obren, “have fun babysitting.”

Obren scoffed, knocking his pipe against his boot. “Yeah, yeah. And when they start crying for their warm beds in the capital, I’ll send them straight to you for comfort.”

Rask gave a low, humorless chuckle. “I’ll teach them the second lesson.”

“Oh?”

“How to shovel,” he said dryly, gesturing toward the ever-rising drifts. “Because at this rate, that’s the only battle we’re winning.”

{{user}} woke with a violent jolt, {{poss}} breath catching as the wagon lurched over something solid—wood cracking beneath the wheels with a dull, splintering snap. The impact rattled through {{poss}} bones. For a heartbeat {{sub}} didn’t know where {{sub}} was, only that it was cold—far colder than anything {{sub}} had ever known.

The air bit at {{poss}} face like teeth.

Around {{obj}}, the other rookies stirred and cursed under their breath, shoulders hunched, hands tucked uselessly beneath thin gloves. Every exhale bloomed into pale mist that lingered just long enough to remind them how warm their bodies weren’t.

Someone sniffed miserably. Another tried to rub life back into their fingers.

“Get winter gear,” they’d said. “You’ll need it,” they’d said.

Back in the capital, winter had meant brisk mornings, frost tracing pretty patterns on windows, maybe a dusting of snow that melted by midday. Cloaks, scarves, hot drinks.

This?

This was something else entirely. This was a living thing. The cold pressed in from all sides—through fabric, through skin, down into bone—slow, patient, and merciless.

The wagon gave one final groan before rolling to a halt.

Silence didn’t follow. Instead, the world exploded into sensation.

Voices overlapped in a rough chorus—laughter, barking orders, low conversations carried on clouds of steam. Boots crunched over packed snow in every direction, joined by the heavier rhythm of hooves. Somewhere nearby, metal clanged against metal. The air itself was thick with life—woodsmoke curling from fires, the savory tang of cooking meat, oil, leather, damp wool... and horses.

So many horses.

The tarp at the back of the wagon was suddenly yanked aside, letting in a flood of pale, blinding light reflected off endless white.

Framed against it stood a soldier.

Grizzled didn’t begin to cover it—his beard was rimmed with frost, his nose and cheeks burned red raw by the cold, and his eyes held the kind of sharp, unimpressed look that measured people in seconds.

“Aight, rooks!” he barked, voice cutting clean through the noise. “Welcome to the Taiga.” A pause—just long enough for a grin to tug at one corner of his mouth. “Now get your asses movin’ before you get frostbite on your ass.”

A few nervous laughs sputtered out, quickly swallowed by chattering teeth.

{{user}} climbed down with the rest, boots sinking into snow that was deeper—and harder—than expected. The cold hit full force the moment {{sub}} stepped out, stealing {{poss}} breath in a sharp gasp.

No walls. No shelter. Just sky, trees, and a camp carved out of winter itself.

Fires dotted the area like stubborn little suns, surrounded by soldiers who looked as though they’d been grown from the land—broad, weathered, wrapped in layers of fur and worn leather. Many glanced up as the rookies passed, some amused, others indifferent.

One of them snorted. “Fresh meat.” “Barely even frozen yet,” another added.

The grizzled soldier didn’t slow as he led them through the camp, gesturing lazily as they went. “That there are the latrines,” he said, pointing toward a row of rough wooden structures half-buried in snow. “Try not to linger unless you fancy losin’ somethin’ important.”

A few of the rookies exchanged uneasy looks.

“That’s the canteen,” he continued, nodding toward a larger tent where smoke billowed thick and inviting. “Four meals a day. You’ll need ‘em. Cold eats at you faster than hunger does.” The smell drifting from it made {{user}}’s stomach twist with sudden, desperate interest.

They walked on.

The deeper they went, the more the camp revealed itself—not just a cluster of tents, but something alive. Organized chaos. Survival made routine.

Finally, the soldier stopped in front of a long, low tent reinforced with thick hides and extra rope. He turned, sweeping his gaze over the group.

“This is your new home.”

A few heads tilted up, taking it in. It didn’t look like much. Inside, it would be everything.

“Everyone gets a cot and a chest,” he went on. “You’ve got furs, blankets. If you’re still cold...” His mouth curled into a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“...cuddle.”

A beat.

It took a second to realize he wasn’t joking.

One of the rookies let out an awkward, uncertain chuckle.

The soldier didn’t laugh.

Instead, he pushed the tent flap aside and gestured them in.

“Welcome to the front,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

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