Takalin was one of the few veterans in the Snow Oath, and he was nearly forty that year.
In those turbulent times, living to that age as a member of the Snow Oath was already a luxury.
He also had a thirteen-year-old son. Aike was his only living tie to the world.
That was enough to make him feel happy.
These members of the Snow Oath were now hiding in a village in northern Snowpeak Commandery that had long since been erased from the maps.
Ever since the Empire began purging the Snow Oath the previous year, this place had become one of their few surviving strongholds within its borders.
Day after day, they waited here for their leader's orders, capturing isolated imperial nobles and knights, then sacrificing them to the "ancient god of the Cold Abyss."
They were not responsible for the sacrificial rites themselves.
Those were presided over by a priest wearing the White Bone Mask and the Black Feather Robe.
No one had ever seen his face, nor heard his voice except when he chanted.
At first, everything had seemed normal enough.
They were few in number, that was true, but morale remained high. At least, that was what Takalin thought.
Over the past few days, however, he had begun noticing things that were wrong.
First came Herick. The young warrior, who used to talk so much he annoyed everyone, had suddenly grown taciturn, staring blankly into the campfire all day.
The corners of his mouth kept moving unconsciously, as though he were whispering to someone.
Then there was Ula. The old fellow who had always loved drinking had somehow gone without a drop for a while.
At first, Takalin merely frowned, thinking they might have been affected by the ancient god's "whispers."
Until late one night,