A singular shaft of frigid dawn light pierced the narrow gap in the ice-hewn walls, illuminating the delicate ice-glass Kaelen held. Borin’s token, brittle and translucent, felt unnaturally warm in his hand, a dull counterpoint to the vibrant hum of power beneath his skin. Its intricate facets, like a captured frost flower, caught the meagre light and splintered it into a thousand phantom gleams. He focused. Cold, pure and ancient, gathered at his core, then pulsed outwards, seeking the crystalline structure of the glass. A faint tremor, a whisper of resonance, passed through the object, but it remained inert, a mere adornment. The crystalline patterns did not deepen, the internal shimmer did not intensify to his will. Not yet, perhaps. Kaelen tucked the glass into a pocket within his furs, a grim reminder of yesterday’s bitter transaction. A heavy thud, sudden and jarring, rattled the very ice of his dwelling. The door, crudely fashioned from packed snow and salvaged timber, shuddered on its hinges. A moment later, it splintered inward with a resounding crack, a shower of frost dust exploding into the room. A colossal figure filled the frame. Joric, foreman of the Deepfrost Mines, stood silhouetted against the pale light, his massive shoulders broad as a glacier wall. Frost-rimed stubble clung to his jaw, and a jagged scar, a pale line against wind-chapped skin, bisected his brow. His eyes, cold chips of obsidian, bore into Kaelen. “Woke to an empty berth, did I?” Joric’s voice was a low rumble, like distant icefall. “Thought you’d try to sleep away your obligation, cub?” Kaelen straightened, his posture betraying no fear, only a profound weariness. “No one called for me. There was no instruction.” Joric scoffed, a cloud of frigid breath escaping his lips. “Instruction? The glacier calls. The work calls. You think this frozen husk of a settlement runs on wishes? Get your ass moving. Now.” Kaelen took a step forward, his boot crunching on a shard of ice from the broken door. Joric moved faster, a blur of immense bulk. A fist, hard as frozen granite, slammed into Kaelen’s jaw. His head snapped back, stars of pain bursting behind his eyes. He stumbled, but his singular power, the dormant cold that coursed through him, muted the worst of the impact, turning what should have been incapacitating agony into a dull, thrumming ache. He tasted copper. A guttural growl escaped Joric as he followed up, a heavy boot connecting with Kaelen’s ribs. He doubled over, a controlled fall, knowing that resistance now was not an option. His body coiled, a spring loaded with unreleased force, but he held it in check. Not yet. He buried his face in his arms as Joric’s relentless kicks rained down, each blow a brutal reminder of his precarious position. He felt a phantom chill spread from his spine, a silent shield, absorbing the blows without diminishing their sting. “Think you can defy the foreman, you piece of frozen refuse?” Joric’s voice was laced with sneering contempt. “This ain’t some soft-bellied outpost. You work. You obey. Or you freeze.” The assault ceased as abruptly as it began. Kaelen lay still, his breath rasping in the frigid air, the taste of blood a metallic tang in his mouth. Every muscle screamed, but the core of him remained unbroken, a frozen resolve hardening within. He pushed himself up, slowly, deliberately, his gaze fixed on Joric’s looming figure. There was no anger on his face, only a quiet, unnerving calm. “You understand now?” Joric’s chest heaved with exertion. “A single step out of line, and I’ll send you to the Deepfrost Pit. Follow.” Kaelen did not reply. He merely nodded, a barely perceptible motion, and stepped out of his ruined dwelling. The biting wind of Glacier Veins immediately enveloped him. His bruised face stung, his ribs throbbed, but his mind was already miles away, charting a cold, patient path towards retribution. --- They moved through the narrow, twisting passages of Glacier Veins. Buildings carved from compacted snow and ice leaned against each other, their windows glowing with the dim, flickering light of oil lamps. Hunched figures, bundled in worn furs, hurried past, avoiding Joric’s gaze. The air itself seemed to shudder under his oppressive presence. Kaelen walked in silence, a phantom of pain his only companion. His steps were measured, his expression unreadable, even as his blood hammered a silent oath against the man stomping ahead. At the edge of the settlement, the earth fell away into a jagged maw. The Deepfrost Mines. Its entrance was a gaping wound in the frozen landscape, exhaling a constant stream of colder, heavier air. Within, only impenetrable darkness reigned. Joric gestured with a dismissive jerk of his head towards a small, shivering figure huddled by the entrance. The grot, a young miner with wide, terrified eyes, fumbled with a pile of gear. He handed Kaelen a pickaxe, its head forged from dark, frost-resistant steel, and a crude glow-helm with a sputtering oil lamp affixed to its front. A small pouch, containing a few days’ worth of dried frost-lichen and pemmican, was thrust into his hands. “Costs for the tools and rations come out of your first take,” Joric barked, his voice echoing into the mine’s throat. “No fancy instruction needed. You swing. You chip. You fill your sack. Understand?” Kaelen merely strapped on the glow-helm, the dim light barely pushing back the encroaching shadows. The grot, visibly trembling, gestured hesitantly deeper into the mine. “The foreman… he said… the Shard-Wound Passage.” His voice was a thin whisper, barely audible over the moan of the wind. Joric, already turning away, waved a dismissive hand. “Aye. The Shard-Wound. Good enough for him. Get him down there, Grot. And don’t you waste my time.” The grot flinched, then gripped Kaelen’s arm, his touch clammy with fear. They plunged into the blackness, the glow-helm casting a feeble circle of light ahead. The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and ancient ice. The tunnel walls, smooth in places, jagged in others, pressed close. A low, rhythmic drip echoed from somewhere unseen. The deeper they went, the more Kaelen felt the world above recede, replaced by a cold, silent embrace. “He’s got a mean streak, the Captain,” the grot whispered, his voice hushed. “Lost his hoard at the Ice-Dice tables last night. Always turns ugly when he’s broke.” “Ice-Dice?” Kaelen’s voice was a low rasp. “Aye, all sorts here. Cards, strong drink, frost-whispers, anything to dull the ache of the cold. Best avoid it. Most of us just dig ourselves deeper debts trying to forget how cold we are.” The grot shivered, a small, helpless movement. “Been here five winters myself. Saw many come, few leave. None of ‘em the same.” They descended further, the tunnel forking into countless arteries. The grot pointed to markings on the wall. “Blue ice-crystals mean up. Towards the surface. Red ones, that’s deeper. Down. Always follow blue when you’re coming out. If you can.” Kaelen felt the chill deepen with every step, the pressure of the earth and ice above him growing immense. The distant drone of drills and the faint clang of pickaxes suggested other miners toiled nearby, yet their passage felt utterly solitary. After what felt like an eternity, the grot halted. His light, weak and wavering, illuminated a side tunnel, narrower and darker than the rest. The air from within was like a solid slab of frozen dread. “This is it,” the grot stammered, his eyes darting to the oppressive blackness within. “The Shard-Wound Passage.” Kaelen stared into the void. It was a mouth, yawning, promising only oblivion. A faint, almost imperceptible whisper of air stirred from its depths, carrying a profound, ancient cold. “Misfortune in there,” the grot continued, barely audible. “Four men. Already. Gone. They say it eats them.” He wrung his hands. “No one wants this shaft. That’s why Joric… he puts the newcomers here. To clear it out, or… to be cleared out.” The grot met Kaelen’s gaze, a flicker of genuine pity in his fearful eyes. “I hope… I hope you come out, alive.” With a final, desperate look, the grot turned and scurried back into the main passage, his light quickly fading to a pinprick. Kaelen stood alone, on the precipice of the Shard-Wound Passage. A profound silence descended, broken only by the faint, distant groan of the ice and the rasp of his own breathing. The air here was sharp, bitter, tasting of forgotten things and absolute cold. Joric’s face, contorted in cruel satisfaction, flashed in Kaelen’s mind. A burning ember, cold and fierce, ignited in his chest. A vow, forged in ice and pain, hardened his resolve. *You sent me to my death, Joric. You will learn the true meaning of the Great Glaciation. I swear it.* He raised his glow-helm, illuminating the first few feet of the Shard-Wound. Then, Kaelen stepped into the darkness, the cold embracing him like an ancient, hungry beast, his pickaxe a cold, familiar weight in his hand. ---