The squad spent the rest of the morning making their way back to their place in the formation. They marched with a relentless pace. By the time Cross finally signaled to slow, every man was breathing hard. Yoran had it worst. Even for a Fjorlander, carrying the dead weight of an injured man was no easy task. Quill wasn’t much better off. He’d barely slept the night before, and the Hallowbound encounter had left him drained. His legs were sore, his ear throbbed constantly, and sharp pain shot through his shoulder every time he moved the wrong way. 

Every man was nursing a wound or two. Vardok was worse than most. His left arm had been bandaged, and he'd found a replacement shield among the fallen scout squad but he winced each time he lifted it 

"Are you going to be alright?" Quill managed between labored breaths.

Vardok cocked his head and flexed his left hand. "Dunno. Bastard got me good. Next bastard'll probably get me worse."

Wil drifted over, eyeing the wound. “We’ll patch you up in camp tonight. Until then, I’ll make sure no more harm befalls you.”

Vardok scoffed. "Fuck off. I ain't need you mother'n me."

“Suit yourself,” Wil said. “But I’m not losing anyone else.”

Vardok scoffed again, then drifted off and lit his pipe.

Wil was truly determined to keep them all alive, Quill could see it in his face. 

"You've seen them now, Quill. You understand what I meant at the bonfire, don't you? Why I have to see this through?"

"Yes," Quill said, his chest still heaving. "I understand."

Quill fell back into formation for the march. Deckard scribbled in the Codex, no doubt marking down everything he'd learned about the Grinners. Quill wished he was writing too. An inn with a warm meal, a glass of wine, and a quiet corner to finish his manuscript felt as far-fetched as the Hallowbound had once seemed.

"I will not perish," he whispered to himself. It felt more like a lie each time he said it. He looked around at the squad. 

How many of us will be left at the end? he wondered.

His eyes landed on Cross. The man’s breathing was steady—unfazed, unmoved by the day’s bloodshed. For some reason, Quill couldn’t imagine the Sergeant dying.

"St-storm coming."

Quill turned to see Trevin squinting at the sky. He followed his gaze, but the sky looked no different than it had the past few days.

"How can you tell?"

Trevin didn’t meet his gaze. “I c-can feel it. That’s all.”

Within hours, the skies proved Trevin right. Snow began to fall. Not gently like it had before, but with great gusts of icy wind. Quill's eyes watered, and he had to lit the match for his pipe three times before he finally managed it. Without Kindleroot, Quill was certain he'd have lost a few fingers or toes to the cold. The squad pressed on but the storm was enough to hinder their march. 

"Blizzard's here." Cross shouted over the wind. "Stay close. Hallowbound won't wait it out."

The snow and wind picked up. Quill could barely see the rest of the squad and only when he could force his eyes open. It took every ounce of focus and energy just to stay close.

Then he tripped. 

Another wave of pain shot through his shoulder. He struggled slowly to his feet, fighting against the wind. Then panic welled up in his chest.
The squad was gone.
He couldn't see anyone.
Just a wall of white.

He trudged through the snow as fast as he could, trying desperately to catch any sight of them. He slipped again. Pain, cold, fear, panic—it was all he felt. He cried out at the top of his lungs but the wind swallowed his voice whole. He rose to his feet once more, chest heaving, shoulder screaming. But all he saw was snow.

Surely someone had noticed. Surely someone was coming back...right?

Then, a voice. To his right. He couldn't make out the words, but it close. 

"OVER HERE!" he shouted.

But the voice was wrong. It wasn't just one, but many. They were loud and incoherent. Not words, but gibberish. Then he saw it. Out of the haze a silhouette appeared. Not of a man, but of misshapen monster. It was the size of a small house. Dozens of six-foot long centipede like legs carried the creature nimbly across the snow. Its body was long and covered in black chitin but moved with snake like flexibility. At the its rear there was a towering rising straight into the air: a vertical mouth with giant human teeth and two drooling tongues. The mouth moved as the creature warbled. Quill had seen this creature in the Codex: a Gibbergnash. 

It weaved between and around  nearby trees while moving parallel to Quill. Quill froze. He couldn't run. Couldn't fall. Couldn't draw his blade. Couldn't even breathe. 

A hand clamped over his mouth and yanked him to the ground. He looked back to see Slim hunkered in the snow behind him, one finger pressed to his lips.

They waited. Half buried in the snow, heart beating out of his chest, Quill remained as still and silent as he could. The Gibbergnash had stopped. Its babbling had gone abruptly quiet. Quill was certain it had noticed them. He swallowed hard. Then, the creature resumed its unnatural movements, slithering away from the formation, back into the trees. Only once the last of the warped gibbering had faded did Slim and Quill rise slowly to their feet.

Slim exhaled through puffed cheeks. "Let's get the hell away from here while we can."

Quill nodded. He couldn’t tell if his hands were shaking from the cold or the fear, though both were becoming far too common for his liking.

They moved fast through the snow. Slim lending a hand whenever Quill faltered. After a few gruelling minutes, the rest of the squad came back into sight. Relief flooded Quill's body as they slipped back into the ranks. The others gave the two men grim looks. Wil looked particularly relieved and clapped Quill on the back.

"We gotta tell the Sergeant about the Gibbergnash," Slim shouted, voice straining against the wind.

He started toward the front, but Quill caught his arm.

"Thank you."

Slim just nodded.

Slim muttered a few words to Cross who turned back to the rest of the squad.

"We've got a Hallowbound nearby. Eyes open." He locked eyes with Quill. "And keep up."

The enervating march resumed. The squad grew ever wearier. Quill began to see silhouettes in the snow—shadows that shifted with every step, each one a new terror waiting in the haze. It reached the point where he could no longer trust his eyes. If a Hallowbound attacked during these conditions...

Quill shook the thought from his head. He pressed on. Solely focused on each step. It felt endless. Snow in every direction. Danger waiting just beyond his vision. Numb, yet filled with pain. How long? How long could he last out here? 

"ARMS!"

A loud shout from Cross cut through the howling gale. Every man drew steel. Quill brought up a hand to shield his eyes from the snow and wind. At the front of the squad, a figure took shape—a dark human shaped mass with limbs hanging limp. But its feet didn't touch the snow. It was hovering. Floating in the air about five feet off the ground. Cross advanced. The squad followed.

Quill prepared for the horror of another Hallowbound. To bear witness to something no man ever should. Instead, the squad found a dead scout, impaled on a tree. He hung from a large branch, lifeless and frozen. Cross sheathed his weapons and reached up to drag the corpse down. 

He knelt to examine the corpse before shouting over the wind once more, but Quill saw his jaw clench ever so slightly looking at the fallen scout. "Stay sharp. Whatever did this might still be close."

Everyone was on edge. Weapons in hand, they marched on, bracing for the inevitable fight. But it never came. Within the hour, the blizzard had died down to a gentle snowfall. The deep snow made the march difficult, but at least they could finally see more than a few feet ahead. Everything was covered in a layer of white. If it were a painting, Quill might've found the scenery oddly beautiful. But standing in the forest, it felt wrong. It was as if the natural beauty of the world was corrupted here. The dead trees cast shadows for the creatures to hide in. The snow was simply a hindrance for combat. Everything in this place worked against them. 

At last, the smoke signal came from the center of the formation. The day was done. 

Cross removed his pipe from his mouth. "Alright men. We head in. Replenish supplies, see to your wounds, get some rest, then we return."

Each man breathed a sigh of relief as they started toward the safety of the center. Deckard walked in front of Quill, checking on the injured scout slung over Yoran's back.

"He's still breathing. Praise Delmiir," Deckard said. "But we need to take him to a medic as soon as we're in."

Yoran gave a grunt in reply and shifted the scout’s weight on his shoulders.

All eight of them had survived. Quill had survived. Not only that, they'd rescued a man from certain death in the process. They were exhausted, half frozen, and beat to hell, but if there was such thing as a victory in the Frostwood—this was surely it.