My steps glide delicately over the snow. I take every precaution, letting my boots sink into the powder while making as little noise as possible. I check the wind's direction and ensure it won't shift. More importantly, I calm the Skein, smoothing the ripples and eddies I create in the fabric of reality. In doing so, I become no more than an odorless breeze, blending seamlessly with the world around me like a chameleon. Through Alteration, I embrace the essence of silence and make it my own. But this isn’t merely a hushed stillness, nor the muffled quiet of a snow-laden forest. It is the silence of a barn owl’s flight: relentless and deadly.

For I am here to kill, to take life—to ask for a sacrifice from nature. I do so through mournful prayers, mouthed soundlessly; through respectful thanks for the final gift I will receive. My silent litany disappears into the frigid air like the clouds of vapor I exhale with each breath. I spread it around me, a mantra, a lament, but most of all, a tribute.

If I am to take life, it is so others may live. Not for pleasure, nor with a light heart. Nature is an exchange, a mutual giving, and I will take with the reverence it deserves. Today, I take. At the end of my life, I will give back, returning my body to the earth.

A short distance away, my companions await my return, seated around the campfire, trying to keep warm. They still have water in abundance and a few vegetables from the Ouroboros’ greenhouses, but these must be rationed, especially in such an environment. I’ve managed to gather some roots and tubers here and there, careful to take only what’s strictly necessary. But to endure the cold for the long term, they will need more—most importantly, fats.

I position myself on a snowy ledge, in the shadow of a birch tree. I am careful not to disturb the snowdrifts and give away my presence. I know I am backlit, as invisible as I can be. Yet, I also know that a single misstep could ruin all my efforts and leave me empty-handed.

Before me, a majestic stag drinks from an icy pond. Its coat is as white as the snow, its eyes as clear as aquamarine. It has broken the pond’s surface with its hooves, cracking the ice to lap at the water. On its milky, twisted antlers, crystalline gems seem to hang from invisible threads, chiming softly like tiny bells. I’ve been tracking its trail for over an hour. I notch an arrow and draw my bow, ready to strike.

But then, an unusual sight captures my attention. From the tree canopy, a massive figure emerges—a polar bear with fur streaked with gold. It moves between the birches, knocking them aside carelessly, dislodging cascades of snow from their branches. Its gait is unhurried, not the least bit aggressive. It settles beside the stag, accompanied by two hares that seem to act as its escort.

The lagomorphs sniff the air and ground, as if ensuring no danger lurks, or maybe searching for tuberous plants. The stag shows no sign of disturbance at their presence, as if an unspoken understanding exists between them.

I ease the tension on my bowstring, lost in thought. Perhaps the hares will suffice for today? No. I draw the bow again, aiming at the white stag. We need provisions for the journey ahead. I exhale, prepared to let the arrow fly.

Suddenly, a trill rings out above me—a jay. Instantly, the stag raises its head, the hares turn in my direction, and the bear growls, standing on its hind legs in a posture of defiance. From the crystalline foliage, which clinks softly in the wind, a cacophony arises: cries of birds—tits, goldfinches, robins, finches, starlings, cranes, blackbirds... All of them sound the alarm, their calls circling above me and echoing through the branches.

Startled by the clamor, I step back. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the polar bear and the arctic hares standing firm, forming a living barrier to protect the stag. The stag, meanwhile, retreats toward the edge of the taiga, striking a birch trunk with its antlers.

Clack-clack-clack.

The steady strikes fill the winter silence, resonating across the frozen expanse with the rhythm of a bell tower.

Clack-clack-clack.

Linking myself to the Skein, I sense energy waves radiating from the very essence of nature, spreading outward in tandem with the sounds. This isn’t mere defiance—it’s a call.

A herd of moose is the first to respond, their hooves pounding the frosty ground. It feels like an immune response, and I am the foreign invader. Fear grips me.

Suddenly, from the snowy ground, dense, downy flakes begin to rise. They drift and swirl into the air as if seeking to escape. I watch this reversed snowfall unfold around me. Cottony tufts seem to detach themselves from the snow’s blanket and take flight. Under different circumstances, the sight might be poetic, but at this moment, it chills me to the bone.

I sense it—something is coming. These sentient flakes are fleeing. This isn’t just a bad feeling. I feel it deep within, in the Skein, like a target painted on my back. Cold sweat runs down my spine; my stomach churns.

Here, I am an intruder.

I’ve lingered too long. I break into a run, not daring to look back. Calling upon Alteration, I summon warmth to melt the snow beneath my feet. I call upon calm to soothe the wildlife’s reaction to me, but it’s futile. Everywhere I go, the uproar follows, the same chaos, the same commotion. Birds cry out. Shapes—caribou, foxes, guillemots, otters—watch me from afar, shrieking, yipping, bellowing.

But it’s the Skein’s reaction that terrifies me most. It roars and rumbles, menacing and unyielding. Never before have I felt such hostility from it, as if it wishes to tear me apart from within.

Sliding down an icy slope, I land awkwardly, barely catching myself. My throat burns, but I cannot stop. Behind me, a deep hum grows, like the sepulchral rustle of wings. The world is muted. Aside from faint movements at the forest’s edge, I see nothing—only the clouds of my labored breath. Here, snow falls from a branch. There, a fleeting shadow at the edge of my vision.

But I mustn’t rely on sight alone. Through the Skein, I feel the forest swarming with life.

Taking a brief pause, I uncork a vial and inhale the essence of relief. I anchor it within me, letting it spread through my limbs. My exhaustion wanes; the pain in my muscles dulls. My fiery lungs cool. It won’t last long, but I need it to keep going. Gritting my teeth, I press forward, muffling my weariness.

The camp isn’t far. Behind me, trees creak and sway. Snow cascades unpredictably from the pines. My pursuers remain unseen, but I know they’re there, watching me. What are they waiting for?

I scramble down a snowy mound, cross an icy stream. Grabbing a tree trunk, I haul myself up the other side, cursing as I slip on frozen roots.

That’s when I notice it. Frost, intricate and commanding, begins creeping over the birch’s black-and-white bark. Delicate patterns rise from the ground, spreading across the rocks along the bank. The temperature plummets. Like mist unfurling over a lake, hoarfrost blankets the shore.

I shiver and call once more upon the idea of warmth to stave off the chill. Pushing through branches, snapping twigs underfoot, I press on.

The camp is just a short distance away.

With two other Alterers and three Bravos swordsmen present, we’ll be able to hold our ground.

I run, stumble, crawl. My hands tremble.

Just a few dozen meters more.

I shout, trying to warn my companions.

Perhaps they’re still attempting to catch ice shrimp?

I cry out again, pushing myself harder for the final stretch.

They’re behind me now, hovering above.

I hear the dull, persistent thrum of their wings, an unnerving drone.

Saskia, the other Muna Alterer, will know what to do.

Finally, I reach the camp and pound on the fabric of the tents to rouse anyone within. I yell and call out.

At the center of the bivouac, the fire is out, its ashes cold.

The tent surfaces are frozen solid and rigid.

But where is everyone?

There isn’t a soul in sight. Everything seems abandoned.

That’s when I notice the claw marks, the shredded ground, the slashed tent fabric…

I’m alone. The others have fled—or been taken.

Desperate, I search the surroundings for aid, for a sliver of hope.

But only the sound of wings responds.

White shadows—camouflaged perfectly against the birch forest—emerge. Their fore and hind wings beat in rhythmic unison, an eerie, hypnotic dance. Their silk-like threads ripple like fur.

They encircle me, a swarm darkening the tempestuous sky.

From huntress, I’ve become prey.

Wingbeats.

The snow rises like a shroud.