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“There are so many,” Serena whispered.
Huts crowded the snow like stones set in white mortar. At first, it looked like a small village, then the scale unfolded and the pattern kept repeating until the eye lost count. It had to be hundreds. A thousand lives or more moved behind those walls of hide and packed snow. Serena tried to picture a thousand people with the hard weight she had felt from the three who had once followed Ketal out of this land, and her throat tightened.
Ketal’s mouth thinned. “Their number has fallen. It should be three times this.”
A tribe able to bend the cold needed thousands. The Primarch had taken more than it gave back. Ketal clicked his tongue once, a sound that condemned the arithmetic, and then set it aside.
“So then,” he said quietly.
They would have to go in. However, his feet did not move at first. It was not fear. It was a refusal that rose without end. The horizon pressed against old bruises. He had promised himself, once, that he would never face it again. Some promises grew teeth.
He exhaled and stepped forward. The choice felt heavier than armor. He led them toward the ground the barbarians called their own.
Two men stood watch at the entrance. Ketal’s eyes flicked, and a hint of surprise touched his voice. “They are keeping watch.”
“Is that not natural?” Helia said.
“They did not accept the natural,” Ketal replied. “I...
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