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Schroeder gasped in the freezing night and sprinted into the darkness. Branches and thorns lashed at his face, but the cold and adrenaline had long since robbed him of any sensation. He was running for his life.

He stole a glance over his shoulder. It was getting closer. Never tiring, never relenting. The shadow weaved effortlessly through the trees like thread in a tapestry, despite the weight of its full black armour. Schroeder gulped in more air and exhaled sharp bursts of fog, yet he noticed nothing escaped from beneath the blackguard’s helmet.

Schroeder’s heart vied to escape his chest. His lungs burned. He knew he couldn’t sustain this chase for much longer.

Arise and face this gloom. The words of legend echoed in his head. If he could not outrun his shadow, it would surely know the bite of his blade instead.

Schroeder pivoted swiftly on the snow, poised his right arm, and dealt a blow to the darkness. The shadow dodged it with wily finesse and struck back, disarming Schroeder and slicing his fingers off in a single blow.

Schroeder screamed and thrust himself backwards into the snow. His sword landed with a soft, muffled thud, his digits raining around it. He grunted in pain and tried to drag himself backwards. Away. Away from the shadow. His stumps painted a messy trail in the snow, and while the frozen ground soothed his wounds, something told him he wouldn’t have to worry about the pain much longer.

Crunch. Crunch.

Terror walked slowly towards him as a wolf toward its wounded prey. Schroeder had nothing left to repel this beast.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

The darkness between the trees birthed a thousand more faceless shadows, moving ever closer.

“Come on, you heathen scourge,” Schroeder shouted in a pained yet defiant taunt. He had lost, but he would stare death in the face nonetheless. “Finish it!”

The shadow raised its crude iron sword to the sky when, suddenly, a sea of brilliant flame pierced the darkness. A horn sounded to Schroeder’s left, and the shadow lowered its blade again. It peered towards the light, then back at Schroeder. It stared at him, then, with a hiss of frustration, melted away into the dark woods with the rest of its kin.

Schroeder succumbed to exhaustion and fell into the night.

*****

Schroeder awoke days later, near the end of a bumpy journey south. He gathered his bearings and realised he was in the back of a horse-drawn cart, his finger stumps crudely wrapped. He was exhausted, injured, and freezing cold, yet very much alive. He looked behind the cart and saw hundreds of Ostarian refugees making this journey with him.

Schroeder painfully pulled himself up and beheld the gates of Turul Város. The War Scholar stood atop the north-facing battlements, flanked by the Warden and the city’s finest soldiers. He spotted Schroeder. Through waves of northerners who bore the weight of tragedy and horror witnessed first-hand, the two men exchanged a solemn nod.

The evidence would suffice.

Schroeder had long since lost the sensation in his face, fingers and feet, but through the third night of unforgiving cold he soldiered on. As he emerged from the forest, a dim glow beckoned him out of the darkness; his brother’s lodge, and a dying hearth shining out as it clamoured for fuel. He gently tugged at his horse’s reins and padded on with caution.

Back in the tavern, the men told stories of bandits and exiles roaming these lands in the winter. Schroeder had yet to see signs of life, let alone a demon army scouring the land. He thought of the legend from his childhood, of those relentless shadows stalking a frozen land under the orders of their terrible leader, and how it filled him with a sense of impending doom when he had read it again days before.

Just for a moment, as approached the lodge, hopeful for a reunion with the brother he had not seen since long before this dreadful winter ensnared Ostaria in its icy clutches, he felt that his fears were unfounded.

The door was slightly ajar. Schroder pushed it open. Winter air gushed in, and he found that the room was no warmer than the frozen wilderness he spent the last few days riding through. The last of the hearth’s waning embers crackled and slowly drained the light from the room.

Schroeder twisted his head to the right. A shadow sat at the end of a long table at the far end of the room.

“Klaus?” Schroeder moved forwards cautiously, for the shadow made no movements, nor acknowledged the name addressed to it. “It’s your brother. It’s Schroeder.”

Schroeder reached out his left hand to touch his brother’s shoulder and caught a fleeting glimpse of his dead, frozen eyes and slashed throat before Klaus’ body slumped to the floor. His body had clearly been here for days, if not weeks, with the freezing temperatures staving off decay.

Schroeder wept for his brother. How could someone do something so cowardly, so cruel, to an unarmed farmer? And under the cover of such a grim winter, no less.

After some time, his grieving turned to puzzlement. He looked once more at the hearth. If Klaus had been dead for days, who lit the fire?

Schroeder heard the crunch of fresh snow outside. He drew his sword, took one last look at Klaus, and ran.

“No, absolutely not!” cried the Warden. Schroeder, who stood on the receiving end of this outburst, was speechless. “You bring me rumours from the tavern and an old wives’ tale, and expect me to send my men into Ostaria in the dead of winter?”

Schroeder knew the Warden to be a man of honour, and didn’t expect him to reject his request to investigate the troubling rumours from the North. However, he was also a man of sound logic who had seen much of war and lost many a good soldier to rash decisions.

Standing in the far corner of the hall, the War Scholar watched Schroeder as he began to slump away from the Warden, utterly dejected and out of options. He felt a pang of sympathy for the man.

“Wait,” the War Scholar sighed. “I know you worry for your brother, but we cannot act on hearsay alone.” The Warden shook his head and walked away, while the War Scholar pondered for a moment. “Find your brother. Bring me proof of these so-called… demons. Something tangible that I can show the council before we go riding gallantly into lord knows what.”

“Thank you, thank you,” Schroeder responded excitedly. “I will do what you ask of me!” He bowed slightly and exited the hall.

Schroeder wasted no time in mounting up and riding North. The roads were treacherous, and the snow belied the ice under foot and hoof. It would be a long journey to Ostaria…

Schroeder paced the halls of the library. Something Hart said in the tavern stuck with him, and he couldn’t shake the spectre of a winter army from his mind. What if it was true? What if his brother was trapped in the North while an army scoured his lands, unimpeded by the freezing cold?

He ran his fingers along the shelf and settled on a dusty old tome. It was well-loved, its yellowing pages aching to part from the ancient glue that bound them. Schroeder carefully leafed through it before eventually finding what he was looking for: an old poem about an endless winter, half-remembered from his schooldays.

His armies march across the land
By nightfall, ice and snow,
No mortal-born can stay his hand
And stop his evil blow.

The demons heed their master’s will
Through land and flesh they rend,
No mercy, for their lust to kill
Shall last ‘til winter’s end.

Schroeder slammed the book shut and disappeared into the night.

Schroeder and Hart entered the tavern, shaking the snow from their cloaks. They were immediately greeted with a rush of warmth, the somewhat comforting smell of spilt ale, and raucous laughter. A merry ballad filled the room. The townsfolk sought solace from the cold, sharing tales and jokes to warm their spirits. Hart took the lead, passed through the crowd and headed straight for the bar.

"Two ales," said Hart as he slid two silver pieces across the bartop. The bartender filled their flagons, and the two men settled in a quiet corner, away from the hustle and bustle. Schroeder gulped his ale and shivered, winter’s chill still clinging to his weathered face.

“What news from your brother?” Hart asked, studying him with quiet concern.

“Nothing from Ostaria since the harvest,” sighed Schroeder. “In all my years, I’ve never seen a winter like this. They’re not ready for it. If it goes on much longer, they’re going to starve.”

A shadow passed over Hart’s face. “That may not be the least of their concerns,” he whispered. “There’s been talk of something moving through the North. Shadows among the trees, a dark legion moving under cover of the freezing darkness. An army.”

“An army? In winter?” Schroeder exclaimed incredulously while finding no trace of amusement in his friend’s face.

“Keep your voice down,” Hart hissed. “It’s probably nothing to worry about. I know it sounds strange, but I think I remember a story just like this.” He paused for thought and looked to his friend. Schroeder’s disbelief had begun to turn to a palpable dread, for he knew of what Hart spoke. “When I was just a child.”

Schroeder and Hart noticed a group of strangers watching them from across the bar. In silent agreement, they supped their ales and made their way back into the bitter cold of Turul Város.