Svilland The Bear King

The wind howled with the anguish of the dying.

Its lament carried all across the Lash.

There was no caress. No gentle cradling. It wasn’t the season for that. Not this far north. Not deep in the heart of the Black Winter.

The wind sliced brutally at Mavnos’s skin, shaper than any blade.

He put his head down, pulling his scarf tighter around his throat. The wool covered his mouth, but still mist wreathed up in front of his face, conjuring its own ghosts.

He stumbled on, head down, listening to the rush of snow falling from overburdened branches that crowded in on him. The denuded forest rose all around him, bark-stripped away like the bones of a thousand corpses. His heart hammered against his rib cage. His breath caught in his lungs. Every muscle burned. But he could not catch his breath.