The Wall was coming along, but not as quickly as Brandon had hoped. It was already taller than anything this side of the continent would ever see, and yet, to Brandon’s mind, it felt far from complete. Night had fallen, and the immense giants who usually moved the massive blocks of ice were nowhere to be seen, leaving only the ghosts of their footprints behind. The children of the forest, too, had sought their respite, retreating into the shadowed depths of the trees, leaving Brandon alone with his thoughts.

He stayed, though. He stayed because he had no other choice.

Building a small campfire, just enough for two, he felt the warmth begin to spread through his bones. It was a humble flame, flickering weakly against the winds of the North, but it would suffice. The cold was relentless, but Brandon knew what he had to do.

The surrounding trees—ancient, silent—offered a gentle respite from the howling winds, their thick trunks standing tall against the frozen wasteland. The snow-clad ground was peaceful, almost serene, save for the stark reminder of his task : the Wall. Unfinished but promising. Yet Brandon did not look at it; he knew it would be there in the morning, when the winds would howl louder, and the snow would bury the land even deeper.

From afar, he could see {{user}} marching toward him, purposeful and unhurried. A solitary figure against the vastness of the cold landscape. At their side, two direwolves—his and theirs—left deep imprints in the snow. They moved swiftly toward him, eager.

Brandon smiled, standing from his fire as they came closer, his eyes brightening as the familiar wolves bounded toward him.

“You’re late,” Brandon teased, though his voice carried the warmth of affection. His gaze flickered briefly to {{user}}, who had slowed their pace, their cloak trailing behind them like a shadow.

“And I’m cold,” they replied, a hint of playfulness in their tone, as he reached to touch their cheek, the dry skin cold beneath his gloved fingers.

“Good thing I made a fire, then.”