The first thing Nimka registered was the cold. It wasn’t a gentle chill, but a biting, relentless grip that seeped into her bones, stealing the heat from her core like a thief in the night. Her teeth began to chatter, an irritating rhythm that vibrated through her skull.
Her eyes fluttered open, struggling against the heavy haze of what felt like a truly dreadful nap. Instead of the familiar dusty shelves of the Grand Repository, she found herself staring at a ceiling of raw, jagged ice, carved into an unsettling, monolithic arch. Beneath her, the surface was even colder, a slab of glacial stone that pressed against her spine. A flimsy, embroidered silk gown, clearly designed for display rather than warmth, offered no defense against the frigid air.
She pushed herself up, a groan catching in her throat as every muscle screamed in protest. Her head throbbed, a dull ache that resonated with a faint, unfamiliar hum beneath her skin. This was definitely not the Repository. The air smelled of ozone, ancient stone, and something wild – something predatory.
Then, a shadow detached itself from the gloom. It wasn’t a shadow at all, but a colossal, hulking beast of a man, all corded muscle and raw, untamed power. His furred cloak, dark as a winter night, seemed to drip with dried blood, and his eyes, amber in the dim light, fixed on her with an intensity that promised a swift, brutal end. Jagged scars crisscrossed his face, pulling his lip into a permanent snarl. This was Vorgoth, the Alpha of the Frost-Claw pack, if the terrified whisperings of the captured noblewoman she'd replaced were to be believed. He moved with a predator’s grace, a low growl rumbling in his chest, and then, with a terrifying lunge, he was upon her.
Nimka didn't flinch. Decades of cataloging forbidden texts had instilled in her a profound apathy towards anything that wasn't bound in leather or parchment. If this was death, it was simply an overdue return to the universe's great, messy archive. She braced herself for the impact, for the tearing of flesh, for the sharp pain that would mark her exit from this inconvenient existence.
But the impact never came. Instead, an avalanche of incoherent noise slammed into her mind, bypassing her ears to batter her consciousness directly—a frantic, desperate thought-stream that had no business being hers.
*“No! Her neck! Too fragile! The bald puppy is freezing to death! Get her off the ice, you imbecile! She’s shivering! My gift! My tribute! Broken!”*
Nimka blinked. Bald puppy? Was he... thinking about her? As a bald puppy? The sheer absurdity of it, combined with the crushing mental backlash of what she instinctively knew was a forced, rudimentary psionic link, was too much. Her vision swam. The hum beneath her skin intensified into a roaring storm. Her body, already weakened by the cold and whatever magic had flung her here, finally gave out. The world dissolved into a comforting, dark silence.
When Nimka next awoke, the cold was gone. The air was thick with the scent of cured pelts and burning spruce, a comforting warmth radiating from a nearby hearth. She lay nestled in a bed of incredibly soft, thick furs, so deep she felt like she was drowning in luxury. This was a substantial improvement. A vast improvement, in fact. This was the Frost-Hewn Citadel, then, the monolithic mountain fortress of the pack, and she was prepared to treat it as an excessively rustic, heavily-guarded bed and breakfast.
The colossal man from the altar, Vorgoth, stood by the stone fireplace, his back to her. His cloak was gone, revealing a broad expanse of muscled back crisscrossed with pale gouges and jagged marks scored by claw and steel. He was currently attempting to coax a reluctant flame from a pile of kindling, his massive hands surprisingly delicate for such a terrifying brute. He wore trousers made of dark hide, and his long, black hair was pulled back in a practical braid.
“Tea,” Nimka announced, her voice a little rougher than she preferred. “And do you have ‘The Illuminated Scrolls of Qol-Gar, Volume VII: The Lesser Rituals of the Ice-Weavers’? I was in the middle of an extraordinarily pivotal section.”
Vorgoth froze, his hands hovering over the kindling. He slowly turned, his amber eyes wide with a confusion that was almost comical on his scarred, imposing face. “Tea?” he rumbled, his voice a low growl that still held a tremor of bewilderment. “And… scrolls?”
“Yes, tea. Black, if you have it. If not, whatever you boil the snow with will suffice. And yes, scrolls. It's a rather rare text, often sealed, but given your… *architectural preferences*, I assumed your libraries would be quite extensive.” Nimka pushed herself up further, the furs rustling around her. “Now, if you would be so kind as to direct me to the nearest washroom and then the library, I can attempt to ignore the fact that I woke up on an ice slab and you thought I was a bald puppy.”
Vorgoth stared at her, his jaw slack. The terrifying Alpha of the Frost-Claw pack looked utterly, completely lost. He opened his mouth, perhaps to formulate a response, when the heavy timber door to the chamber burst open with a crash that rattled the ancient stone walls.
A young warrior, his face smeared with ash and blood, stumbled into the room, clutching a visibly broken arm. He dragged air past cracked lips in short, ragged rasps. “Alpha! The Blood-Ice! They’re testing the northern borders! Large raiding party! They… they say they’re here for the tribute!”
Nimka sighed, a sound of profound annoyance. “Honestly, can’t a person get some peace and quiet around here? First, I’m kidnapped by a giant thinking I’m a canine, and now I’m interrupted before I’ve even had my morning tea? This is simply unacceptable.” She swung her legs out of the furs, her bare feet meeting the cold stone floor with a wince. “Which way to your archives? Perhaps I can find the book myself.”
Ignoring Vorgoth, who was now staring at her with a mixture of dumbfounded shock and burgeoning rage directed at the bleeding scout, Nimka spotted a heavy, iron-banded door on the far side of the chamber, different from the one the scout had just burst through. It had the distinct, neglected air of something important, yet long forgotten – precisely the kind of place where a grand librarian would find the most interesting things. She strode towards it, her silk gown doing little to ward off the chill.
“I’ll just… help myself,” she muttered, reaching for the tarnished iron handle. The scout gasped, and Vorgoth let out a guttural roar, but it was too late. As Nimka’s fingers brushed the cold metal, a faint, crystalline hum resonated from the floor beneath her. A section of the ancient stone, cleverly disguised, groaned and then vanished, plunging her into the icy depths below.