In the northern regions of the continent, winter was not a season.
It was a test.
Snow arrived early, stayed late, and punished mistakes without mercy. Roads vanished beneath ice. Rivers froze solid. Villages that failed to prepare were erased quietly, leaving nothing behind but frozen ruins and names that faded from memory.
People who lived in the north accepted this as a fact of life.
Everyone died eventually.
Greyhaven Village had existed for more than eighty years. It was not rich, not famous, and not particularly important. It sat near a trade road that was used only during warmer months, surviving off farming, livestock, and the occasional caravan that passed through.
When winter came, Greyhaven endured like it always had.
Until it didn't.
The storm arrived without warning.
The first snowfall was heavy but manageable. Villagers worked together, clearing paths and reinforcing doors. Food stores were checked. Fires were kept burning day and night.
By the second day, the wind began to howl.
Snow piled against buildings faster than it could be cleared. The road south disappeared entirely. Anyone still outside was forced indoors.
On the third day, panic began to spread.
Several homes ran out of firewood. Others lost access to shared storage sheds. Arguments broke out. People began hoarding what they could.
By the fourth day, the temperature dropped further.
Fires failed in multiple houses. Water froze inside containers. Livestock died in their pens, their bodies stiff and useless.
On the fifth day, people started freezing to death.
The village elder tried to organize evacuations, but it was already too late. The storm showed no signs of weakening, and visibility dropped to nothing. Anyone who stepped outside risked never returning.
By the seventh day, Greyhaven Village was silent.
No smoke rose from chimneys.
No footsteps marked the snow.
No cries carried on the wind.
The storm moved on as suddenly as it had arrived, leaving behind a frozen grave.
Weeks later, a group of traders passed near the ruins.
They approached cautiously, expecting bandits or beasts. Instead, they found only stillness.
Bodies lay where people had fallen. Some were huddled together in houses. Others were frozen in the streets, faces twisted in fear, regret, or resignation.
The traders said prayers for the dead and buried what they could. There were too many bodies to do more.
Greyhaven Village was marked as lost.
The traders wrote a brief report before continuing south.
Cause of destruction: severe winter storm.
Survivors: none.
The matter was considered closed.
Three days after the traders left, something impossible happened.
Beneath the collapsed remains of a wooden house near the edge of the village, a young man opened his eyes.
His name was Edrin.
At that moment, he was not aware of how long he had been unconscious. His thoughts were slow, distant, and fragmented, as if his mind was struggling to catch up with his body.
Cold pressed against his skin. His chest felt heavy. Pain pulsed faintly through his limbs.
He tried to breathe.
Air did not come easily.
Edrin coughed, his body convulsing as ice-cold air burned his lungs. His fingers twitched weakly. Sensation returned in uneven waves, sharp pain following numbness.
He lay still for a long time, staring at the shattered beams above him.
Something felt wrong.
Not pain. Not fear.
Wrongness.
He remembered the storm. He remembered the cold creeping into his body, the pressure crushing his chest, the moment when his thoughts had slowed and then stopped entirely.
He remembered dying.
That memory was clear.
Edrin pushed himself up.
The effort sent pain through his entire body, but the debris shifted. A broken beam rolled off his chest, landing heavily in the snow beside him.
He dragged himself out of the wreckage, leaving streaks of blood behind. His movements were clumsy and uncoordinated, as if his body had forgotten how to function.
When he finally stood, his legs nearly gave out beneath him.
The village was quiet.
Too quiet.
Edrin staggered forward, calling out names. His voice sounded weak and unfamiliar to his own ears.
No one answered.
He moved through the village slowly, checking houses one by one. Each door revealed the same sight.
Stillness.
Frozen bodies.
Familiar faces that would never respond again.
Only after the third house did Edrin stop searching.
He stood in the middle of the street, snow crunching beneath his feet, and felt something settle in his chest.
Everyone was dead.
Everyone except him.
Edrin collapsed near the edge of the village.
His body shut down again, not from death, but from exhaustion. Hunger, cold, and pain overwhelmed what little strength he had left.
He slept.
When he woke, the sun was low in the sky. Hunger gnawed at his stomach. His throat felt raw, and his muscles screamed in protest when he moved.
But he was alive.
That fact weighed heavily on him.
He searched for food and found little. Frozen grain. Dried meat that had gone bad. Melted snow served as water.
Edrin survived.
Each hour that passed made the situation stranger.
His wounds were severe. He knew that. He had seen injuries like his kill others.
Yet they did not worsen.
The pain remained, but his body did not fail.
The traders found him two days later.
At first, they thought he was a ghost.
A living man walking among the dead unsettled them deeply. They questioned him carefully, checked him for fever and signs of madness, and kept their weapons close.
Edrin answered honestly.
He told them what he remembered.
They listened in silence.
When he finished, one of the traders laughed nervously.
"You're lucky," the man said. "Luckier than anyone I've ever met."
The others agreed.
Luck was an easy explanation. It required no further thought.
They fed him, gave him warm clothing, and pointed him toward the southern road. They did not invite him to travel with them.
Greyhaven was a place best left behind.
Edrin accepted their help and left.
At the time, he believed them.
The incident was recorded later in a regional ledger.
One survivor found among the ruins of Greyhaven Village.
No investigation followed.
Winter claimed villages every year. No one looked closely unless there was reason to.
The world moved on.
Edrin walked south.
Days passed. His strength returned slowly. The pain faded into a constant dull ache, especially in his chest, but it never worsened.
That troubled him.
He should have died.
That thought lingered, unspoken.
Far beyond mortal lands, beyond prayer and belief, existed something older than history.
Death was not a being that demanded worship. It did not speak to prophets or answer prayers. It was a system older than gods, older than the world itself.
Every life was recorded.
Every ending was accounted for.
Nothing escaped its notice.
Except one.
Somewhere in the vast record of existence, a single name was missing.
For now, Death continued its work, unaware of the inconsistency.
But systems that govern reality do not tolerate errors forever.