The north wind blew from the direction of the Cold Mist River, sweeping past the temporary line of wooden stakes outside the camp, sending a chill down one's spine.
Pal Calvin stood on a snow-covered rocky hill, clad in a silver-trimmed cloak, his expression stern.
He gazed into the distance, at the iron mine still buried under snow, where a prosperous mining town should have risen.
But reality was far from his original blueprint.
The permafrost underfoot remained as hard as iron, the tents had been torn by the gale three times, the firewood piles long since burned out, and at night even charcoal had to be burned sparingly.
Two days ago, a craftsman froze to death at night due to lack of fuel, a smile still on his face as if he'd seen his grandmother.
Of course, the worst was the hunt a month ago.
That night, the silence of the snow forest south of the camp was torn by a low growl.
