A rugged man with a beard, wearing a cloak and holding an axe, treks through deep snow in a harsh, blizzarding mountain range.

## CHAPTER ONE — THE LAST WORLD STRIDER ##Section 1 — The Storm and the Cave The wind did not stop. It never stopped in the far north. Snow moved across the mountains like something alive, swallowing shape, distance, and direction until the world became nothing but white motion. Harald walked through it alone. Each step sank deep into frozen ground—slow, heavy, uncertain. His cloak—old, worn, stitched with memory—pressed against his shoulders. It had belonged to his father. Once, it marked him as Chieftain of the World Striders, a clan that rode mammoths across frozen kingdoms and was spoken of in distant lands. A clan that no longer existed. Harald stopped on a ridge and looked out into the storm. Nothing moved. No firelight. No banners. No voices. Only wind. “…Gone,” he said quietly. The word disappeared into the snow. He kept walking. His body was tired. Not the tired of a long journey, but the tired of too many empty days. He had not eaten properly in a long time. The cold made thought slow, and memory even slower. Still, he moved, because stopping meant becoming part of the snow. Eventually, a shape appeared through the storm—a break in the mountains. A cave. Harald narrowed his eyes. Shelter in the north was never safe, but it was survival. Then he heard something. Voices. Children. He stopped. That should not have been possible. Not here. Not in this storm. Harald’s hand slowly moved toward his axe, and then he stepped forward, into the cave. Warmth hit him first. Voir plus