Ashstone's streets were slowly folding into themselves.
Shutters slammed closed one by one, like eyelids choosing not to look at what night might bring. Vendors, half-buried in snow, moved with hurried efficiency, hands red from cold as they packed away what remained of the day's trade.
Wooden stalls stood like skeletal frames under thin canopies of frost, their hanging wares already taken down—dried roots, cheap talismans, leather scraps, flint blades, folded up with the same tired care as if each had survived too many winters already.
Kel walked between them with Reina and Landon at his side.
Snow crunched under their boots.
The cold wrapped around their ankles and climbed upward as if the ground itself resented warmth.
A lantern burned outside a closed apothecary, its light distorted by ice clinging to the glass. Faint voices drifted from nearby alleys—snatches of laughter, call-outs to close shop faster, curses toward the cold.
Kel watched it all with a calm, distant gaze.
Snow had turned the streets into muted corridors of white and shadow.
It should have been oppressive.
Yet there was something else here too.
A stark, quiet beauty.
He let his eyes rise to the sky—where thick clouds smothered stars—and then down again to the path ahead.
"Night would be magnificent here," Kel murmured, "if we can watch the snowfall from the inn."
His voice was soft, just loud enough for Reina and Landon to hear.
Reina's gaze flicked to the side, taking in the way snow clung to rooftops and edges of signs.
"Magnificent," she replied, "from behind glass."
Landon stuffed his hands deeper into his coat sleeves. "As long as there's fire," he muttered. "And something hot that doesn't taste like regret."
Kel's lips almost curved.
Almost.
They turned a corner, and the light of clustered taverns came into view.
The north-quarter atmosphere felt slightly different—warmer tones sliding out of windows, the smell of cooked meat, ale, smoke, and sweat all mingling into a harsh but oddly living scent.
Among them, a single sign swung lazily on a black iron bracket.
A dagger engraved on solid brass.
THE BRASS DAGGER
Its wooden door was solid, reinforced with iron bands, corners worn from use. Light leaked around its edges, steady and inviting in the way fires sometimes were—gentle from afar, dangerous up close.
Kel approached.
He pushed the door open.
Warmth greeted them like a rough slap.
Inside The Brass Dagger
Heat hit first, then noise.
The interior was lit by iron chandeliers holding thick candles, their flames wobbling slightly with the air currents from the opening door. The walls were stone, dark and dense, with exposed beams overhead. Brass fixtures adorned the pillars and corners—lamps, hooks, a few decorative blades—each polished just enough to catch light in dim glints.
The air smelled of roasted meat, cheap ale, boiled roots, charred wood, and human fatigue.
Tables filled the main floor, most occupied.
Men in fur-trimmed coats and leather armor huddled over drinks or meals, speaking in low tones worn by long roads and hard lives. Some had scars along their faces or hands, some bore barbarian beads braided into their hair as trophies or warnings.
Fireplaces along the left wall crackled with thick logs, their embers glowing like captive hearts trying to burn their way free.
Kel stepped inside, letting the heat touch his face.
Reina followed, her eyes adjusting quickly, scanning exits, assessing bodies, noting who sat with their backs to walls and who drank too freely.
Landon, after a small shiver, exhaled once in relief. "Finally," he muttered. "Somewhere that doesn't feel like my bones are being taxed."
The door closed behind them, shutting out snow, trapping them in a pocket of warmth and noise.
Yet beneath the warmth, there was something else—
A tension only someone watching closely would feel.
The way conversations lowered when wind howled.
The way certain men near the far corner drank faster without appearing drunk.
The way every eye flicked reflexively toward the door whenever someone entered.
The room was alive.
But not relaxed.
Not completely.
Kel's gaze settled on the counter.
Behind it stood the innkeeper.
The Innkeeper
He was a broad man in his late thirties or early forties, with a thick beard peppered with early frost-white and a heavy brown leather vest worn over a tunic too thin for the cold outside. His arms were corded with muscle, and faint scars crossed the backs of his hands—marks of a life that had known something sharper than kitchen knives.
His eyes, a tired but alert steel-blue, flicked up as the three entered.
He assessed them with one sweeping glance.
Young.
Light luggage.
Not locals.
Not mercenaries.
But they walked with the kind of posture that had seen movement, not softness.
He wiped the inside of a clay mug with a cloth, then set it aside as Kel approached.
Kel stopped at the counter, Reina half a step behind his right shoulder, Landon slightly to his left.
He spoke clearly.
"Single bed, three rooms. Two days."
His tone carried neither apology nor arrogance.
Simply intention.
The innkeeper tilted his head slightly.
"Three rooms?" he asked. "Most travelers share when it's this cold. Cuts cost. And heat."
Kel's expression did not change.
"We prefer separate rest," he replied.
The innkeeper's gaze lingered a moment longer on his face.
Then he nodded once, approving that answer more than he let on.
He turned, moving toward a wall of keys dangling from pegs. His thick fingers traced the wooden tags, searching.
While he did, the background noise of the tavern shifted—a subtle ripple.
Someone at a nearby table laughed too quickly.
Another lowered his voice.
And somewhere to their right, closer to the fire, a corner conversation dropped just barely enough to become noticeable.
"…north ridge patrol didn't come back."
"…tracks too big for wolves."
"…call it what you want. I know what I saw…"
Kel's eyes didn't move.
Not yet.
But his ears sharpened.
He could tell from the weight of those tones.
Fear trying to sound casual.
Denial failing to take root.
The innkeeper pulled down three keys, wooden tags swinging by metal rings.
He returned, setting them on the counter with soft clacks.
"Three single rooms," he said. "Top floor. The wind bites less there if you know how to listen."
Kel nodded.
"Payment," the innkeeper added, naming the rate.
Kel produced coin without fumbling, the motion practiced, smooth. Not extravagant. Enough to say we are not desperate but not enough to say we are rich.
The innkeeper glanced briefly at the coin weight.
Acceptable.
He swept them into a small wooden drawer.
His gaze lifted again.
"Names?" he asked.
Kel didn't miss a heartbeat.
"Heral," he answered. "Traveling with Elira and Bran."
The innkeeper's eyes flickered briefly across the other two as if recording their presence.
He grunted softly.
"You're not the usual sort that drifts through Ashstone."
Kel's lips moved faintly.
"Is that a problem?"
The innkeeper snorted.
"No. The usual sort tends to die by drinking, gambling, or walking too far into snow."
"Maybe something different is what this town needs."
His gaze slid toward the far side of the tavern, where the earlier murmurs had arisen.
"Rooms are yours," he said. "You want food and heat, take a table on the left side. That's where the fire reaches best."
Kel inclined his head slightly—more acknowledgment than thanks, though the line was fine.
He took the keys, handing one each to Reina and Landon.
As he turned away from the counter, the whispers sharpened for a moment—threads of words catching the edge of his attention.
"…tore through three horses like cloth…"
"…tracks wider than a grown man's chest…"
"…I'm telling you, that wasn't a bear or a stray wyvern…"
Reina's eyes flicked toward the sound, then to Kel.
His gaze remained neutral.
But the truth was simple:
Northern monsters.
Already on the move.
At the Table Near the Fire
They chose a table close to the left wall, where a long stone hearth burned with layered logs. Shadows danced across their faces as they sat, the fire painting brief warmth across skin still ghosted by cold.
Kel claimed the seat with his back to the wall.
Reina took the chair that allowed her the best angle to watch the room without seeming to.
Landon sat with a view of both the entrance and the stairs.
Their alignment looked casual.
It wasn't.
A barmaid approached, her apron stained from the day, hair wrapped in a cloth scarf. She rattled off the evening meal without preamble.
"Stew, bread, dried meat. If you want something more delicate, you're in the wrong town."
Kel answered simply.
"Three of what the room eats most often."
She gave him a brief, surprised glance at the phrasing.
Then smirked faintly.
"Brave choice."
She left.
Leaving them alone with fire, noise, and whispers.
Kel's fingers relaxed on the table.
His gaze drifted—not obviously—to the source of those earlier murmurs.
A table near the corner.
Four men sat clustered there.
One old hunter with a scar along his jaw.
Two middle-aged mercenaries, armor patched in places where better days had long since passed.
One younger soldier wearing the Ashstone guard insignia on his cloak, face pale, hands wrapped too tightly around his mug.
It was the younger one speaking.
Or trying to.
His voice trembled under an attempt at casual cadence.
"I know what wolf prints look like," he was saying. "These were wider than my whole head… and deep. Too deep. Like whatever made them wasn't just heavy. It pressed through the snow, as if the land itself sank with each step."
One mercenary snorted, taking a gulp of ale.
"Snow plays tricks on cowards."
But his eyes didn't agree with his words.
The old hunter stared into his drink.
"Where?" he asked.
The soldier swallowed.
"North-east line," he whispered. "Near the broken pines. Patrol was supposed to circle back before dawn."
His grip tightened around the mug until his knuckles whitened.
"They didn't."
Silence fell briefly around that table.
The mercenary who had scoffed before leaned in slightly.
"And what did the commander say?"
The soldier's lips pulled in something neither smile nor grimace.
"He said we should not 'start rumors that travel faster than the snow'."
Reina's gaze went colder.
Landon shifted in his seat.
Kel listened, head slightly inclined, expression unmoved.
Broken pines…
In his memory—the map of Destiny overlapped with this world—certain "flavor text" locations associated with end-region monsters flickered.
[Frost-Eater Den]
[Broken Pine Ridge]
[Northern Maw]
Monsters that didn't simply attack travelers.
They occupied routes.
Anchor points.
If monsters have already migrated close to Ashstone…
His path to the snow mountain portal would be more dangerous than his previous run had modeled.
The old hunter lifted his mug.
"In years like this," he muttered, "the mountains spit things out they should have kept."
The mercenary laughed uneasily.
The soldier did not drink.
He only stared at the table.
"I heard…" someone at a neighboring table joined in, voice lowered, "…that one of the northern companies lost an entire wagon train two weeks ago. No bodies. Just scraps. Like something big fed… and then cleaned its teeth on the wind."
A weak chuckle.
"Monsters," someone scoffed. "Old wives' tales for men who come home with empty hands."
But no one laughed loudly.
No one dismissed it with their whole chest.
Not in a town that pressed this close to the mountains.
Not with wind howling like that outside.
Kel's eyes returned to his own table.
He leaned slightly forward, letting the firelight draw lines along his face.
Reina looked at him.
Landon followed.
Kel said nothing at first.
Only let quiet gather closer.
Then—
"Monsters or not," he murmured, "the north is moving."
His voice was soft.
But certain.
Reina's expression cooled further.
"Do we alter our route?" she asked.
Kel's eyes drifted toward the east once more, where beyond these walls lay the mountains and beyond them the lake.
"No," he answered quietly.
A faint, thin cloud left his lips.
Though they sat in warmth, cold still lingered inside him.
"We accelerate."
Landon frowned.
"You mean… go faster? Toward that?"
Kel's gaze met his.
Unblinking.
"If predators begin circling a field," he said, "you can do three things."
He lifted one finger.
"Stay and pretend they will not come closer."
A second.
"Run back the way you came and meet whatever waits there."
A third.
"Or pass through before their circle closes."
Landon stared.
Then exhaled slowly.
"We're choosing the third."
Kel did not answer.
He didn't need to.
Reina's eyes dropped to the table.
Then returned to him.
"Then we use this town," she said, "not as refuge."
Her fingers tapped once, lightly, against the wooden surface.
"As preparation."
Kel inclined his head.
"Exactly."
Their food arrived.
Bowls of thick, dark stew, steam rising from each like a brief offering to the cold. Rough bread, dense and warm. Slices of dried meat rehydrated in broth.
To others, this was meal.
To them—
Fuel.
Armor.
Time.
The whispers of northern monsters floated through the tavern air.
Kel lifted his spoon.
Snow continued to fall beyond stone walls.
Somewhere beyond those drifting flakes…
Something large moved through frost and shadow.
Waiting.
Unaware that three small figures in an inn called The Brass Dagger were already deciding how to slip through its teeth—
Or break them.