The northern mountains were draped in a thick mantle of silver-white, their rugged peaks dissolving into the swirling snow. In the forests below, dark conifers bent low under the violent winds, howling like screams as they vanished into the dancing powder. The sky hung heavy and leaden, reducing visibility to near zero as a bone-chilling cold gnawed at the very marrow.

Sigurd, a lone traveler, wandered the snowy wastes in search of a cave for shelter, but even the shadow of a rock wall eluded him. His breath froze white, and the snow beneath his feet swallowed him like deep ruts, draining his strength with every step. In the midst of that desperate blizzard, a single cabin flickering with a faint light suddenly appeared before him through the swaying trees, looking for all the world like a mirage.