Harsh winds tore across the Glacialla expanse. Icy breath plumed from every mouth, instantly dissipating into the endless gray. Survival here was a constant, brutal negotiation with the land. Every shell knew it in their bones, a primal fear that never truly receded. This desolate region, far north in Uhrobiobia, offered little comfort. Frostbite was a constant companion, claiming fingers and toes with merciless efficiency. The ground was a vast, unbroken sheet of ice and compacted snow, stretching to a horizon that blurred between white and pale gray. Nothing grew here, save for the hardiest, most tenacious mosses and stunted, frozen roots buried deep beneath the permafrost. These tiny sources of sustenance were rarely enough. Freezing air seeped through the cracks in their makeshift shelters, crude piles of rock and packed snow, lined with meager animal skins. These structures offered little true warmth, only a slight reprieve from the gnawing cold outside. Smoke clung low, acrid, from the smoldering fires, a precious commodity in itself. Fuel was scarce, gathered from wind-blasted twigs and dried animal dung, each piece hoarded like gold. Hunger was another ceaseless companion. Bellies rumbled, a dull, constant ache. Days were spent scouring the desolate landscape, searching for anything edible. Small, tough roots, frozen berries, sometimes a solitary, desperate scavenger animal. Life was thin, stretched taut across the barren world. A'ndria huddled deeper into his furs, eyes scanning the flickering flames. The heat barely reached him, only warming the outermost layer of his thick, animal-hide tunic. His mind, however, burned with a different kind of fire, a restless energy that pulsed beneath his quiet demeanor. He watched the way the smoke swirled, the way the ice fractured underfoot, the way the wind sculpted the snow into ephemeral peaks. Always seeking patterns, always questioning the obvious. His thoughts often drifted to the hunting parties. They had been gone since dawn. Days like this, the worry was a physical weight, pressing down on his chest. The frost-hardened ground offered little trace to follow. They might find prey, or they might simply vanish into the blinding white, swallowed by a sudden blizzard, never to return. Elder Iglamore sat across the small fire pit, his ancient eyes fixed on the horizon, even through the swirling snow. Nothing escaped his gaze; a gift of exceptional long-distance sight that had saved their small community countless times from creeping dangers or missed opportunities. His face, weathered and etched with time, was a map of every harsh winter he'd endured. Lines fanned from his eyes, deep as riverbeds. Iglamore grunted, a sound like grinding stone.

Chapter 1: The Glacialla Chill