Arm Wrestling

The snow crunched softly under Verion's boots as he trudged forward, his breaths shallow and labored. Each exhale left a faint mist in the freezing air, quickly swept away by the biting wind.

Pain throbbed in his side, sharp and unrelenting. Blood seeped through the makeshift bandage tied tightly around his waist, staining the tattered cloth a dark crimson.

He kept one hand pressed firmly against the wound. The other clutched the hilt of his sword, his knuckles pale with tension.

I'm not dying here, he told himself, gritting his teeth.

The towering peaks of Frozen Peak rose behind him, their icy spires glowing faintly under the pale moonlight. The storm had finally passed, leaving an eerie stillness in its wake.

But the cold was merciless. It crept into his bones, wrapping around him like a cruel embrace.

But Verion couldn't stop. He wouldn't.