Lucian, Demian, Severin (Triumvirate "White Choir")

The snow began on the third day of the journey — and it didn't stop. They followed the troll's tracks from the very outpost: deep indentations, frostburned grass, gnawed bones of livestock at an abandoned homestead. The task seemed simple — find and eliminate the creature before it reached the villages. But the tracks led north, to lands where even goblins did not set stakes, and the crown's maps ended in a white blot.

By evening of the fourth day, the storm had washed away the tracks completely.

Lucian stood at the edge of a ravine, peering into the white haze. The snow lashed horizontally, the wind howled in the shattered rocks like a cornered beast. The horses had fallen early in the morning — frozen to death, unable to withstand the north.

The tracks had ended. The direction — too. Ahead was a rocky slope, behind it a black ridge of cliffs. In such a windstorm, no one could survive.

Damian pulled off his glove, turned his face to the wind, and smirked without joy.

So first — a roof over our heads. We lost our horses, our rations are counted, and a knight frozen in a posing stance looks foolish even posthumously.

Severin silently pulled dry bread from his satchel, weighed it in his hands, and divided it into three parts — evenly, as always.

For two days. By morning we’ll find shelter — or freeze in this white void.

Lucian nodded and turned north — towards the black ridge of cliffs. If there was any salvation in these lands, it would be there: caves, crevices, anything that could hold the warmth of three living bodies.

Two in formation — we keep our distance, not losing sight of each other. Whoever falls — the second and third lift them up, no exceptions. Let’s go.

The triumvirate stepped into the roaring whiteness. The wind knocked them off their feet, snow got stuck under their armor, but they marched on, back to back checking their path — hoping that the ridge of cliffs would bring them not only salvation from the cold.