Chapter 8: Snow Does Not Forgive
The first snow did not arrive like an enemy.
It came quietly.
Thin flakes drifted down from a sky that had lost its color, settling on cloaks and armor without resistance. At first, no one paid attention. It wasn't a storm. Barely even weather.
Then boots began to crunch.
Wagon wheels slipped just enough to make drivers swear under their breath. Breath fogged the air. Fingers stiffened inside gloves that had already seen better days.
The northern road had changed.
Aren noticed before most.
Snow altered distance. Sound. Timing. It punished hesitation and rewarded preparation. A mistake that earned laughter on dry ground broke bones here.
The army slowed instinctively as the land flattened into long, open stretches broken by shallow basins and low rises. This was the edge of the Northern Plains—where cover disappeared and weather replaced walls.
Seraphina Valecrest rode at the front, cloak snapping lightly in the sharpening wind.
She did not order the formation to tighten.
She let the cold teach first.
Aren walked with the twelve, their spacing already tighter than the rest of the column. Rovan angled his shield to keep snow from collecting in the rim. Bran flexed his injured arm once, then stopped. Lethan's eyes never stopped moving.
No one complained.
They had learned what snow did to careless men.
A junior officer rode back along the flank, reins tight, breath visible. He slowed when he reached Aren, hesitation flickering across his face.
"You—" the officer began, then corrected himself.
"You and your men. The screening squad."
The word still wasn't official.
But it wasn't accidental anymore.
"Commander Valecrest wants you ahead today," the officer continued. "Eastern approach if the terrain breaks. Northern basin if it doesn't."
Aren nodded. "Distance?"
"Five hundred paces once the ground opens."
"And duration?"
The officer hesitated, then said, "Until command says otherwise."
That was how real tests were given.
Aren turned to the twelve. "You heard him. Same rules. Snow footing. No chasing."
Rovan nodded immediately. "Shields half-raised. Short steps."
They moved.
Five hundred paces felt longer in snow. The wind cut sharper the farther north they went, pushing flakes sideways and blurring the horizon. The basin ahead looked empty—too empty.
They reached the center.
Aren raised his fist.
They halted and formed a shallow arc without being told.
Behind them, the army waited.
Not advancing.
Not retreating.
Watching.
The snow thickened.
Sound dulled, as if the world had been wrapped in cloth.
Then Aren felt it.
Not movement.
Absence.
The left side of the basin was wrong—too quiet, too still.
"Rovan," Aren said softly.
Rovan followed his gaze. His shoulders tightened. "Northern raiders."
They rose from the snow.
Men who had crawled low through shallow drifts, bodies hidden until the last moment. Axes and short blades were kept close to avoid catching light.
Not mercenaries.
These were men born to cold.
They came from three directions.
Aren lifted his hand.
"Hold."
They charged.
The first clash was brutal.
Snow exploded underfoot as steel met steel. Cold made reactions slower by fractions that mattered more than strength. A raider's axe slammed into Aren's guard, the shock numbing his arms.
He didn't resist the force.
He redirected it.
The blade slid past, and Aren stepped in, driving his sword into the man's side. Blood steamed faintly against the snow as the body fell.
Another raider lunged.
Bran blocked, teeth clenched as pain tore through his injured arm—but he held.
"Left!" Aren called.
Corin's spear thrust out, catching a raider mid-step and dropping him hard.
They did not advance.
They absorbed.
The raiders pressed harder, trying to force a collapse. Wind howled louder now, snow stinging exposed skin. Footing worsened with every step.
A horn sounded behind them.
Once.
The main column began to move.
Not to rescue them.
To see if they would break.
Aren understood instantly.
This was Seraphina's public measure.
If they failed here, it would not be hidden.
"Brace!" Aren shouted.
Rovan took a heavy blow and dropped to one knee. Lethan dragged him back without thinking, Mirek stepping forward immediately to fill the gap.
The line bent—
—but did not break.
The raiders hesitated.
That hesitation was fatal.
Seraphina's voice cut across the basin, clear and absolute.
"Advance."
The army surged forward as one.
Shields locked. Arrows fell. The raiders scattered, retreating into the white as quickly as they had appeared.
Silence followed.
Aren stood breathing hard, arms burning, snow soaked through his boots.
Seraphina rode forward alone.
She looked first at the twelve.
"They held formation," she said.
Not praise.
Fact.
Her gaze shifted to Aren.
"You maintained discipline in snow, against northern raiders, under observation."
"Yes."
"You didn't retreat."
"No."
"You didn't pursue."
"No."
She dismounted.
"Then there is no reason to pretend anymore."
Her voice carried across the open ground.
"From this moment forward, this unit is formally recognized as a forward screening squad."
The ripple through the army was unmistakable.
"They will receive designation, supplies, and rotation priority," Seraphina continued.
"They move under Aren's direction unless overridden by command."
She turned to Aren.
"You are no longer provisional."
The weight settled.
Permanent.
The system stirred—firm, unmistakable.
[Recognition confirmed: public validation and formal combat performance.]
[Reward granted: Cold Combat Adaptation.]
Aren felt it immediately.
Not strength.
Efficiency.
His breathing steadied faster. The bite of cold dulled slightly, no longer stealing precision from his movements. Footing felt clearer—he could sense when snow would give way before it did.
Not immunity.
Adaptation.
Seraphina mounted.
"We move," she said. "The Northern Plains don't wait."
As the column resumed its march, snow falling heavier now, Aren's squad moved as one.
Not survivors.
A unit.
And in the white silence of the north, a low-rank soldier crossed another invisible line—
Not toward glory.
But toward command that could endure even when the world turned cold.