The sun rose, but its warmth never touched Frosthelm. The first pale light stretched over the jagged peaks, its feeble glow swallowed by thick gray clouds that loomed above. It was the snowstrider antlers, not the sun that woke the village. Their soft blue glow pulsed lightly along the rooftops, scattered like stars in the ice. They filled the air with a low hum, a song that had guided Frosthelm through a hundred winters.
The homes of Frosthelm were not built for beauty: low, short structures built to withstand the cold. Their wooden walls weathered by time and reinforced after every storm, were patched with whatever could be salvaged. The oldest among them had been reboarded dozens of times. Most homes stood no taller than a single story, roofs sloped sharply to keep the weight of the snow from caving them in. Some on the farthest ends of Frosthelm, had vanished beneath the snow entirely, their doorways little more than tunnels dug into the ice, their chimneys the only sign of life left. Yet despite the cold, Frosthelm was not a place without joy.
Because within the open spaces between the homes, children darted forming paths and footprints in the snow, Their laughter always consistent at the first sight of dawn, some were already locked in a deadly battle, Pelting each other with quickly packed snowballs, screaming and running between alleys, carts, or whatever they could fit behind. While others worked together to create walls of snow, before blindly launching their snowballs, often missing, or hitting someone who found their fun a little less amusing.
The Frostfoxes were never far from the games, Small and agile, they ran between children's feet, their silver fur reflecting the morning light, one jumped high to try to snatch a snowball mid-air, shaking its head to remove the snow that covered its face and whiskers, another tackled a young girl to the ground, nipping playfully at her hood, as she wrestled and shrieked with laughter.
Near the market, a large crowd formed, as the first Snowstrider races were beginning. The long legged creatures were sleek and fast and at first glance they looked like large elks. They had massive antlers that were glowing with a subtle blue, Their thick fur making them seem thicker than they really were. They stamped impatiently as riders adjusted their grips on the reins pulling them back in line. The crowd lined the market, their voices rising with cheers. Many enjoyed betting on these races, it wasn't a race of status, anyone bold enough could compete, and anyone foolish enough to challenge Jorn the current Snowstrider champion, would probably end up dismounted, their head buried in the snow and their legs the only sign of them left.
The market was always the first to come to life, traders shaking the frost from their stalls, using thick hides to stop the snow from destroying their wares. Bundles of tanned hides, meats, tools, and carved trinkets were laid out across the entire market. A woman was hunched over a block of wood, using a knife to carve delicate patterns along the grain, shaping the curve of a new bow, beside her a boy no older than 10 was turning a bone in his hand, carving, chipping and making arrow heads for the hunters when they came.
Because beyond the market, the hunters were already moving. Some returned from the Forests, exhausted and injured, pulling heavy sleds with fresh kills, deer, frosthares, the occasional tusked snow boar. Others were just setting out, fastening cloaks, sharpening blades, purchasing anything they may need while in the forest. As the hunters left they would say a prayer with their loved ones, hoping for food and a safe return. As they stood watching them disappear into the tree line.
Frosthelm always watched, They survived too much to be careless, They lived through the Great Divide, When half its people traveled beyond the mountains, seeking warmth and never returning. They fought through the First Blizzard of Frosthelm, When the wind tore homes apart, ripped trees from their very roots, and buried countless under the snow to be lost forever. And it had won against the Frostwolf war, The night the wolves came, their eyes glowing in the dark like a torrent of fireflies. While no one who is alive today lived through these events, they were recorded and passed down stored in the great halls of Frosthelm, The tales to remember and tell the kids "The north can not kill man"
And beneath the shadow of the Great hall, the training grounds awaited. The snow there was not fresh, it was hardened and packed down by countless footsteps, some areas tinted red with the endless duels and spars. This is where boys became hunters, Where girls became warriors, And where the weak learned their place.
And now the sparring grounds were alive with motion, blades clashed, boots slid over ice and snow, shouts and orders were given in urgent voices. Some fought with iron swords, others held long hunting spears, learning how to brace themselves against charging beasts, struggling to hold their place on the ice.
One figure stood apart from the rest, watching with a gaze of stone. Eryndor OakHart. He was the north made flesh, tall, broad shouldered, unshaken by fear, his Frostwolf cloak barely shifted in the wind, His Steel gray eyes sharp as a sword cut through the training grounds, None could match him. He had tracked beasts through blizzards, felled creatures twice his size, and walked away from battles where lesser men would die. He did not offer praise lightly, nor did he hold back.
One of the older boys who challenged Eryndor lunged forward with a spear held outright, he was fast, precise, but too predictable. A single step to the side, hand gliding down the wooden shaft of the spear guiding it, a sudden pull, Eryndor pulled the spear from the boy's grip causing him to shift forward and fall in the snow. As the boy looked up, a wooden sword was halted between his eyes. The boy looked to the side and admitted defeat.
Eryndor stepped back. "You were too eager, don't let your own mind push your body forward" The lesson was over, another would begin.
As the wind swept across the training ground, Eryndor turned his gaze toward the Great Hall. There in its walls awaited those who had yet to start the hunters path, They did not hold blades or bows, But their battle had already begun.
Built at the heart of Frosthelm, it towered over the village like a giant. This was where Frosthlem's history lived, within hides, carvings, books of the old world, but also in those who gathered in its walls, where futures were created, paths were chosen. Inside young children sat cross legged on leathers and pelts, listening and retelling stories of their ancestors. The older ones, Those nearing their seventeenth year were expected to choose their path. Seventeen was the age you prove yourself in Frosthelm.
Some followed their families, learning the forge, tanning, trading. Others chose the path of the hunter, training to hold a bow, to wield a sword, and to track in the endless white. And when the day came that they left the village to hunt, the village would wait to see if they would return.
As the world stirred, the clash of swords in the distance, howls of frostwolves deep in the woods, the hammering of hooves on the ice as the Snowstriders reached the finish line. In one home, beneath the glow of an antler's light, the world remained still. A boy lay beneath thick blankets, shifting between waking and dreams. His name was Thalos. And today, like every other day, he would wake to the sound of the world.
End of Chapter 1 - A Boy in The Cold