Blood in the Snow

Wintergrave Fortress was not built for gods.

Its walls were tall, yes, reinforced with fire-tempered steel and rune-bound stone. Its ramparts had repelled ancient siege beasts and shattered skyships in the Age of Iron. But what stalked toward it now was not made of flesh and blade alone.

It was cold.

A living cold. A divine rot.

Ice cracked across the valley floor as the Icebound advanced—hundreds of them, armored in celestial frost, eyes dead-white with purpose. They did not speak. They did not chant. They simply marched, and wherever their boots touched earth, snow bloomed from the soil like ash.

Atop the highest watchtower, Kael gripped the stone parapet, his fingers white from more than just the chill. His cloak whipped in the stormwinds rising from the enemy's approach. Below him, soldiers scurried to prepare—archers stringing bows, smiths reinforcing gates with molten iron, mages carving frantic sigils of protection into the walls.