First Snow

The first snow came without thunder or threat—just a slow drift of white across rooftops and frost-bitten weeds. It dusted the swamp like flour over a cutting board, settling in the hollows and corners of Bogwater, quiet but unkind.

Bogwater had grown—not fast, but steady. Mossy stone slabs paved half the paths now. Timber frames stood where swampland once choked. Goat pens, smokehouses, crude fences, swampberry rows. Ale barrels stacked near the commons. And everywhere, signs of strain.

Children trudged through the frost in patched boots and oversized cloaks. Old coats had been handed down too many times. The smell of cheese and lizard meat filled the morning air—but not enough of it.

Levi stood at the village edge, arms crossed, watching Harwin scold a builder for misplacing a support beam. He should have felt pride.

Instead, he felt tired.

The wind nipped through his sleeves, sharper than yesterday. It wasn't the snow—it was what came with it. The cold had teeth now. And behind it, the old truth whispered through every breath of frost: winter wasn't coming—it was here.

A scout's horn blew. Not an alarm—two short blasts. A signal for arrivals.

Levi turned his head—and froze.

They came in lines. Not wagons this time, not small bands. People. Dozens. Then more. A shuffling mass of limbs and rags. One hundred, at least. Maybe more.

Refugees.

Mothers with infants wrapped in cloaks too thin. Old men limping on carved sticks. A boy no older than eight, face red and raw, dragging his sister by the hand. No animals, no carts—just what they could carry.

Harwin was already shouting orders. "Get the fires stoked! Clear the commons!"

Mae came out of her home, lips tight.

And then, to Levi's surprise, the maester came too.

Old Maester Hullen rarely left his stone cottage near the pond. His joints ached too much, and he claimed he'd seen enough misery in his days. But today, he moved—slowly, leaning hard on his cane, eyes sharp.

Levi approached him. "You're outside."

The maester grunted. "Even blind men could hear what's coming, boy. This frost isn't just snow. It's warning."

They watched as Harwin's men ushered the newcomers toward the fire pits. Broth was already cooking. What little they had, they shared.

But it wasn't enough.

One girl wouldn't stop shivering, even after two bowls. She curled near the flames, lips pale, teeth chattering like loose stones. Her mother sat behind her, holding her close, but the girl kept shaking.

Levi saw it happen. Quiet. No scream. Just stillness. Her mother didn't notice at first.

Then the wail came. Sharp. Endless.

Harwin flinched. Mae turned away.

Levi stood still.

The maester didn't move either. "Food helps," he said softly, "but clothes, shelter—those matter too. You can't feed warmth into bones already frozen."

"I know," Levi murmured.

"You act like you've got a plan for everything," the maester said. "So what's your plan for this?"

Levi didn't answer. Not right away.

He looked at the lines—faces pale with windburn, feet dragging through the snow. There were no warm welcomes left to give. Only warmth itself, rationed and thin.

He didn't look back at the maester. Just said, "The plan is to keep them alive."

"For how long?" the old man pressed. "Until the snow gets deeper? Until someone brings steel and raiders follow the scent of smoke?"

Levi clenched his jaw.

"I'm not your lord," he muttered.

"No," said Hullen. "But they're following you anyway, boy."

Then he turned and left, cane tapping rhythm against the stone slabs.

Levi stood a moment longer, then walked back to his home. He didn't open the cheat engine. He didn't need to. He already knew what he'd see.

"Boy!"

The voice was sharp, nasal. Levi turned. Three men approached—bundled in cloaks stitched with guild marks. Masons. Carpenters. Men he remembered paying weeks ago.

"Master Jent wants a word," one of them said.

Levi followed without speaking. They led him to the half-finished longhouse by the western edge of the village—now being used as shelter for the guild teams. Inside, warmth met sawdust and quiet tension.

Jent, the stonemason foreman, was standing by a crude map scratched across a table plank. His thick beard was flecked with frost.

"You said this was a job," Jent began, voice low. "A real job. A growing place. You paid coin like a lord."

Levi said nothing.

Jent tapped the table. "And now you've got more than a hundred extra mouths. No walls. No guards. No steel. That's not growth—that's bait."

Another man leaned forward. "What happens when word spreads? Raiders won't care who's noble and who's not. They'll smell smoke and think it's gold."

A third chimed in, younger, more anxious. "We're builders, not fighters. We didn't sign up to die in a swamp."

Levi raised a hand. "I hear you."

Jent narrowed his eyes. "Good. Then hear this too: some of the lads are talking about leaving. Half the guildfolk came for coin, not cause. They won't bleed for strangers."

Levi looked at the scratched map. No defenses. No arms. No steel. Just slabs and wood. And now, over a hundred refugees trying to survive a snowstorm.

"Give me a day," Levi said quietly.

Jent's frown deepened. "You better mean it."

"I do," Levi said, then turned and left the longhouse.