The world opened gradually as he walked west, leaving the river's memory behind. The trees thinned to stunted clusters. The land rose and fell in cold waves.
Jagged ridges broke the horizon, their peaks shrouded in mist. Every so often he saw animal tracks crisscrossing the snow—hooves, paws, something with long claws.
He tried not to think too hard about the claws.
The sky darkened as the day bled onward. He had no sense of the time, only the slow dimming of light and the way shadows grew longer and heavier.
His legs hurt.
His feet hurt.
His chest hurt.
Every breath burned, but that was almost welcome—proof that he was still here, still moving.
Thoughts of Earth came in flashes.
The glow of his monitor. The cheap chair that had started to squeak when he leaned back. The way the world outside his window had looked in winter: snow, but gentler than this, softer, with cars passing and neighbors shoveling and distant city sounds.
Here, the silence felt older. Thick. Like it belonged to something watching.
He pulled the scarf higher over his mouth.
At some point, the faint outline of a road appeared: two worn tracks cutting through the snow, flattened by repeated passage. Relief loosened his shoulders a little.
If there was a road, it had to lead somewhere.
His stomach cramped again. The bit of rations he'd eaten earlier had only reminded his body what food felt like. He forced himself not to think about it, focusing instead on the rhythm of his steps, on scanning the treeline, on the way his sword hilt felt against his palm when he rested his hand there.
He almost missed the smell.
It tugged at the edge of his awareness first—a faint sting, sharp and dry.
Smoke.
Areus stopped, nostrils flaring.
He turned his head, trying to find the direction. The wind carried it in thin, broken streams, but it was there.
Not campfire smoke. Stronger. Dirtier.
City… walls… fire…
He started walking faster, following the road, breath fogging heavily now. The smoke grew clearer, thicker, mixed with something else: the faint tang of forged metal. Soot. Old stone.
Then he saw it.
At first, just a darker shape against the dull sky. Then lines sharpened into walls—high and rough-hewn, built from massive blocks of stone, their edges softened by frost. Wooden palisades jutted above parts of them like teeth.
Coldreach.
The city crouched at the base of a ridge, half-surrounded by a shallow valley. Smoke rose from within its walls in a dozen gray columns, drifting up and blending with the clouds.
For the first time since he'd arrived in this world, Areus felt something that wasn't fear or numb determination.
Hope.
It was small and fragile, but it was there.
People lived there.
People who might have food, information, answers.
Or throw me out, a quieter voice added. Or kill me.
He kept walking.
As he drew closer, details emerged.
A gate made of thick timbers banded with black iron. A heavy portcullis raised just high enough for carts to pass beneath. Walkways along the walls where figures paced slowly, shapes wrapped in cloaks and carrying spears.
Guards.
Areus straightened instinctively, trying to look less like a half-frozen vagabond who'd just looted corpses by a river.
It probably didn't work.
Two guards stood by the gate, flanking the opening.
One was tall and broad-shouldered, with a thick beard braided neatly into two ropes. A battered steel helmet sat slightly crooked on his head, and his mail shirt had been patched so many times it looked more stitch than metal.
The other was younger. No beard, just a faint dark shadow along his jaw. His eyes were sharp, though, and his grip on his spear looked practiced.
Both watched Areus as he approached.
When he got within speaking distance, the older one raised a hand.
"That's close enough," he called, voice carrying easily over the wind. "State your business."
His accent was rough, northern, each word clipped and hard.
Areus swallowed, throat suddenly dry.
"I'm…" He hesitated. "Trying not to die, mostly."
The younger guard snorted before he could help himself. The older one shot him a look, then returned his attention to Areus, eyes narrowing slightly.
"You from one of the outlying farms?" he asked. "You don't look like any of the valley folk I know."
Areus's mind raced.
He couldn't exactly say, I died on another world and woke up in the snow.
"I was on the road," he said instead. "Found a river east of here. Three men were attacked." He forced himself to meet the man's eyes. "Cannibals. One of them was still alive. He told me to come here. To Coldreach."
The name felt strange on his tongue, but right at the same time, as if it fit the cold in the air.
The older guard's expression tightened.
"Did he give a name?" he asked.
Areus shook his head.
"He had dark eyes," Areus added. "Scar along his left cheek, thin. Armor… old chain. His hip was torn open."
For a moment, something flickered in the man's gaze. The younger guard shifted his weight, discomfort obvious.
"Joran," the older one muttered under his breath. "Damn."
He exhaled slowly, the breath steaming into the air.
"How far?" he asked. "From here."
"Half a day's walk," Areus said. "Less, if you're used to this terrain. Follow the river east from where the road splits—there's a bend with a rock shelf. They're there. Or were." He swallowed. "One of the cannibals was… still eating."
The younger guard's jaw clenched.
"Pale-feasters again," he muttered. "They're moving closer."
"Enough," the older one said sharply, then nodded once toward Areus. "You killed it?"
Areus hesitated, then nodded.
"Yes."
There was a beat of silence.
The older guard studied him more closely now, gaze moving over the cloak, the scarf, the sword at his hip, the stiffness in his stance. Areus had never been more aware of how clumsy he felt in his own skin.
"You fight like a farmhand or a sellsword?" the man finally asked.
"I fight like someone who doesn't want to die," Areus said.
The younger guard's mouth twitched again, but this time it wasn't quite amusement. More… reluctant respect.
The older man huffed softly.
"You've got a tongue on you," he said. "Coldreach doesn't feed mouths for free, stranger. You'll need coin or work."
"I can work," Areus said quickly.
Doing what? He had no idea. But he'd figure it out.
The guard studied him for another long heartbeat, then jerked his head toward the gate.
"Name?" he asked.
Areus almost said the first one that came to mind from home before remembering that this—at least—was still his.
"Areus," he said. After a breath, he added, "Areus Reys."
The guard grunted.
"I'm Hadrik," he said. "This pup here is Leno." The younger guard rolled his eyes at the word "pup" but didn't argue. "You cause trouble inside these walls, I'll know. And I'll personally throw you back out where the Pale-feasters can have you. Understood?"
"Understood," Areus said.
"Good." Hadrik stepped aside. "Welcome to Coldreach, Areus Reys. Mind the alleys. And if you're smart, stay away from anyone offering cheap meat in the lower quarter."
Areus didn't ask.
He didn't want to know.
He ducked his head slightly and stepped through the gate.
The city swallowed him.
The first thing he noticed was the sound—so much louder than the forest. Voices, footsteps on stone, the creak and groan of wagons, the occasional shout. Somewhere, a dog barked. Somewhere else, metal rang on metal in steady, rhythmic beats.
The second thing was the smell.
Smoke and sweat and animals and cooking.
And under it all, faint but there, the same iron tang he'd smelled by the river.
Life, pressed together behind stone.
The streets just inside the gate were wide enough for carts to pass each other, lined with buildings that leaned inward as if trying to block out the sky. Most were simple—stone on the bottom, wood above, roofs heavy with snow and icicles. Lanterns hung over some doors, small flames flickering behind oiled glass.
People stared as he passed.
Not for long. Just quick glances, weighing, measuring. His clothes weren't much different from theirs, but there was something about the way he moved that marked him as other. Lost. Out of place.
He kept his head down, not wanting to draw more attention.
His stomach twisted again, protesting the long walk and the weak food. The smell of cooking grew stronger the deeper he went—meat sizzling, bread baking. It was almost painful.
He followed it.
The road split, one path curving upward toward what looked like a taller, better-kept part of the city, the other sloping down where the buildings grew shabbier and the streets narrower.
Walls. Fire. City. The image in his mind didn't say where he should go.
Downward seemed more likely to hold food he could afford… if he had anything to pay with.
He checked his pockets as he walked.
In the leather pouch he'd taken from the dead man, he found more than rations. His cold-stiff fingers brushed against small, hard circles. He pulled one out.
A coin.
Roughly stamped, one side bearing the vague image of a tower, the other a wolf's head. It was heavier than the coins back home. He had no idea what it was worth.
He counted quickly.
Seven of them, all the same metal.
"…Thank you, nameless river man," he murmured under his breath.
The lower streets narrowed into something closer to alleys, the ground turning from clean stone to slush and mud where snow had been trampled repeatedly. People here wore more layers, faces half-covered with scarves and hoods. Their eyes were harder.
Stalls lined one stretch of street: crude wooden tables, blankets on the ground, anything that could hold goods. Meat hung from hooks, red and glistening. Fish lay on crushed ice, their eyes dull. Bundles of dried herbs dangled from strings, filling the air with sharp, bitter scents.
Areus's gaze went to the meat first.
He stepped toward a stall where an older woman stood behind a table, sleeves rolled to her elbows despite the cold. Her hands were thick and scarred, her hair pulled back in a messy knot.
She looked him up and down before he could speak.
"First time in Coldreach," she said, not so much asking as stating.
Is it written on my face? he wondered.
"Yeah," he admitted.
"Coin?" she asked.
He held up one of the wolf-head pieces.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, then she nodded.
"Passable," she said. "That'll get you a bowl and some bread. Nothing fancy. And I'm not watering the stew for you, so don't whine."
"I'm not in a position to whine," Areus said.
She snorted.
"Sit there." She jerked her chin toward a bench beside the stall. "And keep your hands visible. I don't know you, and I don't trust anyone my age wouldn't remember as a child."
He did as she said.
By now, his legs were grateful for any excuse to stop. He sat heavily, sword bumping against the bench. For a moment he just… breathed, letting the sounds around him wash over him.
The woman ladled something thick from a pot into a wooden bowl. Steam rose in fragrant curls. She tore a rough wedge of bread from a larger loaf and set both in front of him with a thunk.
"Eat," she said. "You look like you're about to fall over."
Areus didn't argue.
The first spoonful was almost too hot, burning his tongue, but he didn't care. It was meat and root vegetables and something spicy that warmed all the way down. The bread was dense and dry at the edges, but dipped into the stew it softened, soaking up flavor.
He ate until the bowl was clean, every bite dragging him a little further back from the edge.
When he finally set the spoon down, his hands had stopped shaking.
He looked up to find the woman watching him, arms folded.
"Name?" she asked.
"Areus," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before realizing that was probably rude. Too late now.
"Ragna," she said. "You're either very lucky or very stupid, Areus. Coming alone from the east these days is asking to be eaten."
"I noticed," he said quietly.
Her gaze flicked over him again, more thoughtful now.
"You have somewhere to sleep?" she asked.
"…Not yet."
"Then don't stand gawking when the sun goes," she said. "The alleys here are hungry. Go uphill. Find the inn with the burned antler sign—name's the Ember Horn. The owner's a miser, but he doesn't ask too many questions so long as you don't bleed on his floor."
"Thanks," Areus said.
Ragna grunted, already turning to another customer.
Areus rose from the bench, feeling the weight of the coins in his pouch, the sword at his side, the ache in his legs. The city felt a little less overwhelming now that he'd eaten, but only just.
He turned toward the upper road, toward the promise of an inn and a roof and a bed that wasn't made of snow.
As he walked, a shout rose somewhere behind him. Then another, sharper, threaded with panic.
He stopped and half-turned.
Further down the lower street, beyond the stalls, a small crowd was forming around something on the ground. Voices overlapped—fear, anger, disbelief.
"…again—"
"—took her in the night—"
"—same mark on the door—"
Ragna's voice cut through, low and furious.
"Pale-feasters don't come this close without help."
Areus's fingers tightened around his belt.
The man by the river.
The filed teeth.
The warning.
Don't let the dark take you…
He turned back toward the upper road.
He wasn't ready for this city, its secrets, its monsters wearing human faces.
But he was here now.
Areus Reys walked toward the Ember Horn, and toward whatever the North would demand of him next.