Ketal had warned them that a barbarian festival was not the sort that ended with song; even so, the tribe did not fight from the first shout. The clash came as a crown, a bright rim at the end. Before that, they did what people anywhere did when they gathered for a festival: they ate, laughed, traded boasts, and tried to out-sing one another while stamping patterns into the snow.0

Cheers leapt like sparks. Barbarians danced with easy joy, heels thudding on packed snow, shoulders rolling under fur and cord. Helia watched, blank with surprise, as if her thoughts had paused in the wind. The sight could have belonged to any village after a good hunt. It was simple, human, ordinary.0

Yet this was the White Snowfield. These were the ashen-haired barbarians. She stood inside the legend rather than hearing about it from someone else, and that truth struck her again as solidly as a drumbeat.0

“Here. Eat.” Hekate thrust something into Helia’s hands before the Saintess could step away from the circle. “You are far too thin. Do you think you can fight like that? Fill yourself. Put weight on your bones. Feed the muscle.”0

“Ah. Thank you.” Helia accepted it on reflex. Only then did she look down and understand what she held, and the color left her face.0

It was a red piece of meat. Even after a boil, it seemed to twitch, as if the heat had failed to drive its life out. Edible was not the word that came to mind. She glanced at Ketal for rescue, but he merely inclined his head in a small nod that gave no room for refusal. It was a gift that could not be thrown away.1

Helia shut her eyes, lifted it...0