Cold Open

Bryn Shander didn’t wake so much as endure. Morning arrived out of habit – a smear of dirty grey where a sky should’ve been. The wind worried at shutter hinges and hissed through gaps in stone like it held a personal grudge. Snow lay knee‑deep in the alleys and packed hard into the cart‑ruts of the main road.

The Bent Nail hunched near the south bend, half-sunk behind a stingy stack of firewood, too small for the weather, too neatly arranged to be free for the taking. Its sign hung crooked, one rusted chain ready to give. A thread of smoke climbed from the chimney, thin and uneven, breaking apart in the wind.

Inside, a low fire smouldered in the hearth set into the room’s centre. Black iron grates. Ash banked thick around the edges. Three men sat close, elbows on knees, staring at the fire as if it held an important truth. No one spoke. The fire popped too loudly, and nobody looked up.

Rurik stood behind the bar, broad frame, thick wrists, beard silvering at the corners. He moved without hurry, setting each mug down as if time were something he could ration. When he spoke, it took even longer. He looked up when the door opened, waiting.

The newcomer stood framed by the doorway, outside snow swirled in the wind, cold flakes blowing in.

“You looking for an invitation?” Rurik said, voice deep as his shoulders were wide. “It’s cold enough without you letting the heat out.”

Snow followed the man inside clinging to his boots, his scarf, the rim of his hood. His left boot scraped the floor a half-step behind the other, wrapped thick in stitched furs and oilcloth.

Frost stiffened the edges of his beard. The skin around his eyes was raw and wind‑burnt. He shut the door and stood there a long moment, just breathing.

Rurik watched him peel himself out of the cold. Hood. Scarf. Gloves. He moved slow and deliberate, keeping his weight on the good leg. He didn’t greet anyone. Didn’t sit. Just stepped to the bar and set a hand on the timber.

“I won’t be needing the room after this week,” he said. “Once I can walk proper, I’m heading south.”

Rurik’s eyes flicked to the wrapped boot. “Toes?”

“Two gone. Third’s turning.”

“Could’ve been the whole foot.”

“Could’ve been me.”

Rurik poured something hot from the kettle by the fire and slid the tin mug across. No charge. The man cupped it in both hands, knuckles red, holding it like the heat might reach something deeper than skin.

“Didn’t see what you came for?” Rurik asked.

The man shook his head. “Not a feather. Not a call. Frostjays are gone. If they’re smart, they flew south and kept flying.”

“Smarter than us, then.”

The man sipped, eyes fixed on the fire.

“I thought I was prepared,” he said after a while. “Camped in the Star Mounts. Spent a winter in the Serpents. Thought I knew cold.”

“You knew winter,” Rurik said. “This isn’t that.”

The man nodded. “Tent collapsed on the fifth night. Wind tore the spine out. Couldn’t feel my hands. Thought I was done.”

“You almost were.”

“I don’t know how cold it got,” he murmured. “Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t feel my hands. Couldn’t get warm. Couldn’t spark a fire in that cursed wind. Snow coming sideways, ripping through the seams.”

“They call it the cold open,” Rurik said. “You don’t close your eyes once you’re in it.”

The man paused. Shuddered, remembering, then swallowed.

“Then the aurora came. Middle of the night. Just a whisper of green over the ridge, but enough. I could see. Found my tinderbox where it’d fallen. Gods… that saved my life.”

Rurik didn’t blink. “She rides the wind at night, they say. Draws the curtain across the sky. Keeps the sundown.”

“She?”

“Auril. The Frostmaiden. Cold’s not just weather anymore. It’s got a name.”

The man studied him, unsure if he was being mocked. But Rurik’s eyes held no humour, only the certainty of someone who’d lived too long in a place that wanted him dead.

“Auril,” the man said quietly. “I see.”

He turned toward the hearth, watching coals crack and collapse. The fire wasn’t much, but it was more than he’d had in days.

After a long silence, he spoke again, still facing the flames.

“I saw shrines. Offerings. Southwest of here, on my way out. A man walking beyond the walls with nothing but a lantern.”

Rurik nodded. “Bryn Shander sends one out every new moon. No fire. No food. If they last the night, she’s pleased. If not… the rest of us last a little longer.”

The man’s jaw tightened. “That’s madness.”

“That’s faith.”

Rurik poured himself a drink and downed it in one motion. When he leaned in, his voice dropped low.

“The Children of Auril say she’s punishing us. Say we’ve got to satisfy her until she loosens her grip.”

“You believe that?”

Rurik shrugged. “Believe, don’t believe. Same difference, long as my name ain’t pulled from the sack.”

The man drained the last of his drink, hands wrapped around the cooling tin. He didn’t answer. Just stared into the hearth, shoulders sagging.

At last, he spoke, voice raw.

“Gods… why do people stay? Don’t they see it’s hopeless? Two years of this… why hasn’t everyone left?”

“More than two,” Rurik said.

The man said nothing, turning the empty mug slowly on the worn bar.

“Some folk can’t leave,” Rurik went on. “Roads are gone. No caravans. No trade. Blizzards swallow the passes. Some are too broke, too hurt, too hunted. Came here because nowhere else would take them. Dale’s full of folk trying to disappear. For them, Ten‑Towns is the last stop.”

He nodded toward the window.

“For others, this is home. Born here. Raised here. Fathers buried in the snow. Mothers froze in childbirth. This isn’t strange to them. It’s just life.”

Rurik paused, jaw working.

“It’s worse now. No denying that. But we’re a hardy folk, and our luck’ll turn. It’s got to.”

The man let out a slow breath.

“I’ll go once the swelling’s down. Soon as I can walk without bleeding.”

Rurik nodded. “I know someone who might help with that, get you walking again, mostly. You’re paid through Lathday. Should be long enough.”