Chapter #68: The North's White Whisper
Friday.
03:20 a.m.
At that hour, the cold did not feel like a mere absence of heat, but like a living presence—dense, deliberate—slipping through the seams of one's coat and biting into the skin with cruel patience. The torches along Briggs's walls burned with a weak, reddish glow, struggling against the wind that poured down from the mountains like an endless lament.
Miles walked with a steady stride, his rifle resting against his shoulder, senses sharp. Since arriving at Briggs, he had learned one thing above all else: the North's silence was never calm.
It was a warning.
That was when the sounds began.
A deep crunch, as if something heavy were moving through compacted snow. Then another. And another—rhythmic, slow, deliberate.
A young soldier, pale-faced with dark circles carved by sleepless nights, approached Miles nervously.
"Sir…" he whispered. "That must be the Spirit of Winter."
Miles frowned.
"The Spirit of Winter?" he replied, keeping his voice calm but firm. "What the hell are you talking about?"
The soldier swallowed and glanced toward the mountains before answering.
"A few years ago… before you arrived… something used to come at night. A spirit, or a demon—no one really knows. It appeared out of nowhere, ate our supplies, and vanished without a trace."
Miles slowly turned his head toward him, listening closely.
"That's why General Falken put Captain Buccaneer in charge of the night watch," the soldier continued. "The Captain didn't take it well. He enforced extreme vigilance, especially on new recruits. He said the demon was as strong as a bear, judging by the damage it left behind. It came hooded… so no one could see its face."
The wind howled through the battlements, as if eager to confirm the tale.
"They say if you saw its face…" the soldier lowered his voice even further, "…a blinding light would hit you. And then you'd disappear."
Miles clenched his jaw.
"There were always marks left on the ground," the soldier went on. "Strange marks—like alchemical symbols. But no one in the North knows alchemy, so… people said they were demonic signs. That the spirit used them to move through the base unseen. It went on for an entire winter."
He let out a short, broken laugh.
"So be careful, Mr. Miles. We don't want the spirit coming back and taking the supplies again… because then the General cuts rations, and that's when we all really suffer."
Miles remained silent for a few seconds. His red eyes scanned the darkness beyond the wall, analyzing every shadow, every uneven shape.
"It's nothing," he finally said. "Just stories to scare recruits. The cold makes people see things."
The soldier nodded, though he didn't look convinced.
And then it happened.
In the distance—right where the faint red light of Briggs barely touched the snow—a figure appeared.
Tall.
Hooded.
Perfectly still.
It wasn't walking. It wasn't running. It was simply there, as if it had always belonged to that place.
Miles raised his weapon at once, aiming with trained precision.
"Who goes there?!" he shouted, his voice echoing along the wall. "I suggest you surrender before you get hurt!"
The figure did not respond.
For a moment, Miles thought it might be a trick of the wind. Then the silhouette moved. One step forward, and the light revealed a slender build—far too lean to be a bear, far too silent to be an ordinary soldier.
Miles narrowed his eyes.
"Is that… a man?" he murmured to himself. "Or a woman?"
He couldn't tell.
Suddenly, a dry, hollow sound shattered the air: wood striking against the ground, repetitive and dull. In the distance, dogs began to howl—sharp, desperate howls, as if something unnatural were approaching.
From the darkness, an object slid across the snow.
A sled.
It moved with no visible guide, carried by the natural slope of the terrain. It crashed into the base of Briggs's wall with a muted thud and came to rest on its side, like an abandoned offering.
The soldiers aimed in every direction.
"What the hell is this?!" one of them shouted.
Miles didn't lower his weapon. His pulse was steady, but his mind raced. The hooded figure was no longer where it had been. It had vanished, as if swallowed by the snow itself.
The sled creaked.
Inside were sacks. Supplies. Dried meat. Flour. Basic medicines.
"It didn't take anything…" the young soldier whispered. "On the contrary…"
A chill ran through Miles—one that had nothing to do with the cold.
He looked at the tracks in the snow around the sled. They weren't normal footprints. They were irregular, deep, as if something had altered the very surface of the ground.
Symbols.
Not demonic.
Alchemical.
Miles slowly lowered his weapon.
"This isn't a spirit," he said quietly, more to himself than to anyone else. "And it's not a demon."
He looked back toward the mountains, where the darkness seemed to stare back at them.
"Whoever it is… knows this base. And they didn't come to steal from us."
The wind rose again, slowly erasing the marks, as if the North itself wished to keep the secret.
Somewhere far from the wall, a hooded figure paused for a moment, looked back at Briggs from a distance… and then continued on, melting into the night.
End of chapter