The blizzard finally broke. Weeks of travel. Of monsters and slavers. Trial after trial befell the villagers as they pilgrimaged to the Bridgefort, but they were being led by the avatar of Petra Ymirstottir, the Winter’s Daughter. And she had made them a promise.

  The silhouette of the structure could be seen against the rising sun, and Petra let out a sigh of relief. It had been a rough journey, but she knew her people. They were able and willing to handle the challenges. There were many days when packs of feral wolves were surrounding the camp, or slaver scouts had been spotted. Where Petra’s warriors went out into the snow without telling her there was danger.

  They would come back with scabs and bruises and proud grins.

  These were worth it. Her pride would swell bigger than theirs, even. Petra had not been a goddess for long. Less than a generation. But she loved her people, and she loved the feeling she got when they worked to please her.

  It was as though the sun was shining brighter, but just for her. Even though they were far in the north, and much of their journey saw no sunlight at all, she felt it. The warmth of worship is not a warmth of temperature, but one in the nucleus of your existence. A second wind for the will to live. The thing at the heart of every ascendant. The Light of Greatness.

  “Is that the bridge?” one of the younger children asked Petra as the camp hurried to join the goddess and her scouting party.

  “Aye, that’s Bridgefort. The sign of our friendship with Gessel and his Church of the Will. The paladins will be here to help us. Now, keep your scarf on. Just because there is some sun does not mean it’s warm!”

  The little girl giggled. “I can take it! I spent the winter with Winter’s Daughter!”

  “Then you know to trust the Winter’s Daughter when she talks about cold! Put your scarf back on.” Petra teased.

  The little girl laughed. “Okay. But only till noon.” She scampered back to the rest of the group as she bundled herself in the thick cloth.

  The children had grown so much, and were recovering nicely from this disaster. Some of them still woke up, clutching for their parents. Nightmares of the slaver attack were not uncommon.

  In fact, Petra still had them herself from time to time. The real tragedy came for the kids who no longer had parents to cling to when they woke up. Just another duty for the Winter’s Daughter. She could scoop them up and let them cry. She would sing them soft songs or tell them sweet stories until they fell asleep in her arms. And the light would grow brighter inside her for it.

  As the camp caught up with the scouts, the woman Petra had sent ahead to greet the fort was returning. Petra waved to welcome her, but the woman did not wave back.

  “Ymirstottir,” she said when she came close enough. “Ymirstottir. Look.” The woman was carrying something under her arm, a thick white cloak. She shook the bundle open to reveal a paladin’s cape and buckler, all caked with rusted blood.

  “What is this?” one of the scout men asked.

  “I just barely got hold of this. It was in a pile on the north side of the fort. They are inside, Ymirstottir. What do we do?”

  “Who?” Petra figured the question was obvious. But she needed to be sure before she let anyone panic.

  “The slavers.”

  “No.” Petra was despondent. How could this happen? She had led them all this far to be trapped against the canyon?

  Her despair was obviously palpable as the adults looked to each other nervously. “Ymirstottir,” one man said finally. “Do not worry. These slavers will be crushed. We have the Winter on our side.”

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  “No, you have its daughter for now.” Petra sighed. “And I do not know if it will be enough.”

  “Bridgefort is impregnable,” another adult added with a tinge of sadness.

  Petra stepped off on her own a handful of steps in the direction of the fortress. She gripped the fur pouch on her hip and grumbled. She plunged her hand in and removed a large curved ram’s horn.

  “Sorry to bother you,” she muttered as she raised the horn to her lips and blew. The sound was earthshaking. Snow was blasting skyward in every direction around the goddess as the blast rang out. The makeshift snowstorm was blinding.

  “What did she do!?”

  “I can’t see anything!”

  The villagers yelped and shouted as the snow filled the air. The fearful shouts of children grated against Petra, but she knew it would just be a moment of discomfort. Then, over the cacophony, she heard a heavy footfall.

  A thud accompanied by the crunch of snow and a slight tremble to the earth beneath them. The visitor’s voice came suddenly, like a trumpet. “Hello!” And with the greeting, the snowstorm was blown aside by an otherworldly gale.

  It took a moment for the men and women to realize who was amongst them. When the towering figure came into view, they all gasped and bowed their heads. The children, though, knew immediately. They whooped and hollered with glee.

  The avatar of Ymir, the Father of Winter was massive. Twice as tall as the tallest amongst the group, he was large enough to easily carry the makeshift battering ram on his back. The weapon consisted of a pine tree’s trunk, the crown of which was still covered in needled limbs that dragged through the snow behind him.

  His massive shoulders were made larger by a thick pelt cloak decorated with tusks and teeth, and his thick brown hair was braided and adorned with beads. But amongst the locks were icicles that further betrayed his godhood and his affinity for ice.

  “Father!” Petra shouted happily as Ymir approached.

  “What a bad father I am. Can not even keep my word.” Ymir’s voice was low, smooth, and all-present on the tundra. “Did you not say this was a task for Petra and Petra alone?”

  “This is a special circumstance, father,” Petra said sheepishly.

  Ymir turned his head to one of the nearby warriors. “As they often are when a child calls for help. ‘Father, stay away until I say you can help,’ correct?” The warrior smiled with understanding. Ymir turned his massive head to see the children gathering, watching in slack jawed awe as their hero stood amongst them. “Hello little ones!”

  “Father, Bridgefort has fallen to the slavers.”

  Ymir swung back to look at his daughter, his light blue eyes flickering with concern. “What is that you say, daughter?”

  “It is true. Anna, would you show him, please?”

  “Yes, Winter’s Daughter. Winterfather, please.” The warrior who had scouted Bridgefort presented the bloodied cloak and shield to Ymir and bowed. “I found it in a pile of equipment in similar condition by the main door. A guard spotted me and fired, but I managed to escape with this.”

  Ymir looked to the fort and grimaced. “Those fools attack Gessel without regard?” The giant looked back at his daughter. “Petra, you were right to call me after all. This conflict may be beyond your contract.”

  “What would you have us do, Winterfather?” another warrior asked.

  “Bridgefort may not fall to surly people. Not only is it part of our responsibility to Gessel, but the men and women of the south are ill-equipped to battle the monsters in that fortress.”

  “They say,” Petra said playfully. “That Bridgefort is impregnable.”

  Ymir looked at her, at the uncomfortable adults, and at the excited children. He swung his head back and erupted with laughed. It was as though the entire tundra laughed with him as the guffaws echoed across the open land and off toward the canyon to the south.

  “For the Father of Winter? There is no such thing!” Ymir gripped the massive tree trunk on his back and hefted it before him. He gripped a large metal handle affixed to the siege weapon’s center and swung it forward with a roar, mimicking an assault on a fortress gate. He looked to the humans amongst him. “My friends, for Petra and myself, there is nothing that can not be done today. We would love to grant any of you the chance to prove your heroics! But I will only allow you to join if your child is not waiting for your return.”

  The warriors shuffled around until only a handful remained, with them mostly being split between those too young for children, or those old enough to have children grown.

  Ymir looked to Petra and gave her a loving smile. “Our first fortress siege!”

  “I have been looking forward to this father,” Petra replied. A chill came across the tundra, but Petra and Ymir did not feel cold from it. Instead, the light deep within shone as the warriors gave their silent worship.

  “With me!” Ymir’s cry rumbled across the field and the small group of twelve soldiers and two ascendants began their march to retake Bridgefort.