The cold beyond the perimeter gnawed at their skin. It was that specific, wet-iron brand of Northern frost that seemed to bypass leather and wool entirely, sinking straight into the marrow until your bones felt like glass rods ready to snap. In the center of the clearing, a natural bowl of grey shale and stunted, skeletal pines, a small cluster of the new hearth stones sat nestled in the dirt.
Three were active, pulsing with that rhythmic glow that was supposed to be the camp's salvation. The rest lay dark, cold as the ground they occupied.
Zarius stood at the vanguard of the small, hand-picked unit, his silhouette a jagged tear against the cold, colorless sky. Beside him, Elios moved quietly, adjusting the line of the knights with small, subtle hand signals. Further up, tucked into the shadow of a frost-shattered boulder, Ezek leaned on his sword. The knight's eyes were fixed on the stones with a raw intensity that bordered on the feral.
