The crown of wolves

Chapter One

The world was a desolate white. Snow fell in heavy, blinding waves, whipped by a relentless wind that howled through the scanty pine trees. Each gust sent a fresh flurry into the man's face, his tattered cloak flapping wildly behind him as he rode. His horse, a sturdy creature of weathered strength, plodded through the thick drifts, each step a laborious struggle. The man's gloved hand clenched the reins, guiding the beast forward with a determined yet weary grip.

In his other arm, cradled against his chest, was a small bundle wrapped tightly in a worn blanket. The man shifted his weight, trying to shield it from the biting cold, his broad shoulders hunched and shaking. His breath came in heavy, labored puffs, visible in the frigid air. Blood, stark against the pure snow, marked his path—splatters trailing back into the whiteness, hints of a violent past he had yet to escape.

His clothes, once fine and noble, were now torn and burnt, singed edges flapping like ragged pennants in the wind. The hood of his cloak was pulled low, shadowing his face from view, a face the reader could only imagine as grim and resolute. He urged his horse on, the creature's hooves sinking deep with every step, snorting and shaking its head against the wind.

The landscape was a vast, featureless expanse, stretching into nothingness under the relentless storm. Each pine tree, skeletal and burdened with snow, seemed a solitary sentinel in this frozen wasteland. The man navigated this treacherous path with a singular focus, his eyes never straying from the barely visible trail ahead. He moved with the urgency of a man driven by purpose, the kind of purpose that leaves no room for hesitation or fear.

He pressed forward, the cold gnawing at his bones, the weight of his burden growing heavier with each passing moment. The bundle in his arm stirred, and a faint, muffled cry broke through the wind's howl. He glanced down, his grip tightening protectively. The sound spurred him on, a reminder of what he carried, of why he could not stop, not here, not now.

His journey had been long and fraught with peril. The blood on his clothes and the pain etched into every movement spoke of battles fought and narrowly survived. He bore wounds that would have felled lesser men, yet he remained upright, driven by an iron will and an unyielding resolve. The cottage, his destination, lay somewhere ahead, a beacon of hope and safety in this otherwise hostile world.

At long last, the trees began to thin, and the ground beneath the snow grew rockier. The man guided his horse toward a rise in the landscape, a cliff that overlooked the valley below. He reined in the exhausted animal at the cliff's edge, his eyes scanning the view beyond. There, nestled in the shelter of the hills, was a small cottage, smoke curling from its chimney—a sign of warmth, of life.

Relief, mingled with a grim determination, washed over him. He had made it this far, but the journey was not yet over. The cries of the baby, louder now, pierced the storm's howl, a haunting melody of innocence and desperation. He adjusted the bundle, his touch gentle despite his rough hands, and urged his horse onward once more.

The night was dark, an oppressive shroud of snow and wind, a world of white and gray, obscuring all sense of direction. The man's horse plodded on, hooves sinking deep into the snow, each step an act of perseverance against the relentless storm. His gloved hand gripped the reins with a tenacity borne of desperation, the other arm cradling a tightly wrapped bundle, a faint cry emerging from within. His face remained hidden beneath a deep hood, the flicker of a firelight in the distance his only beacon.

He reached the cottage, a lonely structure huddled against the elements, smoke curling from its chimney—a fragile promise of warmth and safety. Dismounting, his legs almost buckling beneath the weight of exhaustion and injury, he knocked on the door. The wood vibrated under his insistent fist, each knock swallowed by the howling wind. Silence followed, a heavy, oppressive silence broken only by the baby's cries.

From within, a voice, gravelly and hard, responded. "Whatever you are looking for, you won't find it here."

The man's voice, though weak, carried a steely edge. "A hunter's night brings light even to the darkness that men hide."

The silence stretched, the storm's fury pressing in on them. Minutes felt like hours before the door swung open with a creak. A massive figure filled the doorway—a giant of a man, deformed and one-eyed, his presence imposing. The man in the doorway stared down, suspicion in his solitary eye.

The mysterious man held out the bundle, desperation etched in his every movement. "Please, save her. She is dying."

The giant's gaze shifted to the baby, her small face partially revealed from the blanket, showing burns and a brand marking her as a witch. His expression darkened, torn between pity and fear.

"I can get in trouble for this," the giant rumbled, his voice like grinding stones. He hesitated, looking the man over. "You will get in trouble for this. They will find you. Let nature take its course if you're too—"

"Save her, now!" the man interrupted, his voice cracking with pain and fury. The hood fell back, revealing the weathered face of Eldredge, a warrior's face, lined with fatigue and determination. His eyes, fierce and pleading, locked onto the giant's.

The giant sighed, a deep, reluctant sound. "It will cost you a lot, witch-hunter."

The man reached into his cloak, pulling out a heavy bag, the clink of coins audible even over the storm. He dropped it to the ground, gold spilling from its mouth. But the giant remained unmoved, his gaze steady and unyielding.

"I mean a lot more than just coins. Do you understand what will come for you once they hear of this?"

The witch-hunter's breath came in harsh gasps, his resolve wavering. Then, with a determined glint, he unclasped a pendant from around his neck—a brilliant orange ruby, its light seeming to pulsate with an inner fire. He held it out, the gem's glow cutting through the darkness. The giant's eye widened in surprise.

"Keep the gold. You'll need it," the witch-hunter rasped, his strength nearly spent. Without waiting for a response, he turned away, leaving the bag of coins and his horse behind. "Take care of her, too," he added over his shoulder, his voice fading into the storm.

The giant, still holding the baby, watched him go. "What's her name?" he called out, the question carrying over the wind.

The man paused, glancing down at his bloodied, burnt palm. Snowflakes melted upon contact with his seared skin. He seemed to wrestle with the answer before replying, "Snowblood. Call her Snowblood."

With that, he walked into the storm, his figure slowly swallowed by the swirling white. The giant stood there, cradling the baby, the orange ruby glowing in his massive hand. He looked down at her, her small face peeking out from the blanket, eyes wide and searching.

Inside the cottage, the warmth embraced them as he closed the door. The fire crackled in the hearth, a stark contrast to the freezing tempest outside. The giant moved to a sturdy wooden table, carefully setting the baby down and unwrapping her. Her burns and the brand marking her as a witch were painfully evident. He sighed, a deep, resigned sound.