A Winter Tale

The snowstorm roared like a wild beast, lashing at the young traveller with icy fangs. Athanasius, bundled in a cloak that did little to shield him, hunched over the neck of his weary horse. The beast snorted, steam rising from its nostrils as it plodded forward, each step a laborious battle against the snowdrifts.

"Easy there, old friend," Athanasius muttered, his voice nearly lost to the howling wind. His fingers, numbed despite his gloves, clutched the reins as he squinted into the white chaos. The road—if it could still be called that—had long disappeared beneath a thick blanket of snow, leaving him to trust in the horse’s instincts more than his own sense of direction.

Snowflakes, sharp as needles, pelted his face, sneaking past his hood to sting his cheeks and settle in his eyelashes. The world around him was a swirling void of white, an endless expanse that offered no sign of shelter, no promise of reprieve. Athanasius shivered, not from cold alone but from the creeping sense that he might very well perish in this storm, another nameless traveller claimed by winter's wrath.

Then, through the relentless gale, a flicker of light pierced the darkness. At first, he thought his mind was playing tricks on him, conjuring a vision of salvation out of sheer desperation. But as the horse trudged closer, the light grew steadier, a warm glow beckoning him forward like a beacon.

"There! Do you see it?" he murmured to the horse, as if the animal might share his relief. The horse, perhaps sensing his urgency, picked up its pace despite the snow's resistance.

The light resolved itself into the windows of an old timberframe house, golden and inviting against the cold blue of the night. A sign, swinging precariously in the wind, creaked on its iron hinges. Though the words were obscured by frost, the unmistakable shape of a painted tankard suggested an inn. Athanasius dismounted clumsily, his legs nearly giving way as his boots sank into the snow. Leading the horse by its reins, he staggered toward the heavy wooden door, his gloved hand fumbling for the iron latch. With a grunt of effort, he pushed it open, and a rush of warmth and light enveloped him.

The interior was a stark contrast to the storm outside. A roaring fire blazed in a stone hearth, casting flickering shadows on the timbered walls. The scent of roasted meat and spiced wine filled the air, a welcome assault on his frozen senses. A handful of patrons sat at rough-hewn tables, their voices low but cheerful, their faces ruddy from drink and firelight. The innkeeper, a stout woman with arms as sturdy as tree trunks, glanced up from polishing a tankard. "Saints preserve us, look at the state of you!" she exclaimed, setting the tankard down with a thud. "Come in, come in, before the storm carries you off entirely."

"My thanks, good lady," Athanasius said, his voice hoarse as he stepped inside. Snow clung to his cloak in clumps, melting quickly and pooling at his feet. He felt the heat seep into his bones, both a relief and a sharp reminder of how cold he’d been.

"And your horse?"

"Outside."

The innkeeper clucked her tongue. "You’ll kill the poor beast leaving it out there. Thom!" she called over her shoulder, and a lanky youth appeared from the kitchen. "Take this gentleman’s horse to the stable, will you?" The boy nodded, darting past Athanasius to brave the storm. The innkeeper turned back to him, her sharp eyes softening as she gestured to a table near the fire. "Sit yourself down. You look half-dead." Athanasius obeyed, sinking into the chair with a sigh of exhaustion.

As he warmed himself by the fire, he couldn’t shake the sense that this little inn was more than it seemed. Perhaps it was the way the shadows danced just a little too lively, or the faint scent of something… otherworldly… beneath the aroma of food and drink. But for now, he set his suspicions aside. Warmth, food, and a roof over his head were miracles enough for one night.

The innkeeper soon returned with a steaming bowl of stew and a tankard of spiced wine, placing them before him with a motherly nod. "Eat up. You’ll feel human again soon enough," she said with a wink. "Your horse is snug in the stable—he’ll be fine till morning." Athanasius murmured his thanks, digging into the meal with a ravenous appetite. The stew was hearty and rich, warming him from within as much as the fire did from without. He couldn’t help but notice how quiet the room had become; the other patrons spoke in hushed tones, their laughter subdued, as though they too were aware of some unspoken tension in the air.

When the meal was done, the innkeeper reappeared, gesturing toward the staircase. "Your room’s ready. Best get some rest while you can. Storm like this, you’re lucky to have a roof over your head."

As he climbed the narrow wooden stairs, his boots thudding softly against the worn steps, an uneasy feeling began to creep over him. It started as a vague discomfort in the pit of his stomach, growing with each step he took. "Nonsense," he muttered under his breath. "It’s just the storm, or perhaps the stew was too rich. Nothing more." Yet the shadows cast by the flickering fire seemed to stretch and twist in ways that defied logic, and the faint creaks and groans of the old building sounded almost… deliberate. He reached his room, pushing open the door to reveal a modest space with a small bed, a washstand, and a sturdy chair by the window.

He removed his boots, sighing at the release of pressure on his aching feet, and hung his damp cloak on a peg near the door. Just as he was about to sit and let the day’s weariness consume him, he noticed something odd beneath the door. A faint, flickering light spilled into the room, dancing like firelight.

"Strange," he thought, frowning. He distinctly remembered seeing no other lights in the hall when he’d climbed the stairs. Athanasius hesitated, then crept toward the door, his heart thudding in his chest. Gently, he opened it, and a musky, earthy scent wafted in, tickling his nose. He stepped into the hallway, following the source of the light.

The smell seemed to grow stronger as he descended the stairs, mingling with the faintest hints of damp stone and aged wood. He paused midway, tilting his head as a faint scratching sound reached his ears. It was subtle, almost mouse-like, but… larger. Listening closely, he pressed his ear against the wall, only for the sound to retreat, drawing him further downward. When he reached the main room of the inn—or the taproom, as some might call it—he froze. The fire had dimmed to embers, casting long shadows across the room. At a table near the centre, dimly lit by a single guttering candle, sat the outline of a figure. The contours suggested a man, but the way he sat… unnaturally still, as though carved from the air itself. Athanasius’s breath caught in his throat. He felt the pull of curiosity, tinged with dread, urging him closer.

Gathering his resolve, Athanasius adjusted his redingote and took a step forward. He straightened his posture, preparing to address the mysterious figure. "Good eve—" he began, but the words faltered, his voice emerging as a strangled squeak. Only a plume of cold breath escaped his lips, visible in the dim light. The figure did not react. Steeling himself, Athanasius inched closer. Words had failed him, so he held his breath, his boots barely whispering against the wooden floor. The faint flicker of candlelight revealed more detail: the figure’s hand moved in a slow, deliberate motion, as if writing.

Athanasius drew nearer, his curiosity outweighing his fear. Before the figure lay an ancient tome, bound in cracked leather and adorned with tarnished silver clasps. Its pages shimmered faintly, the ink shifting and writhing like shadows caught in a dream. A soft whisper seemed to emanate from the tome, a melody of enchantment weaving through the air. Athanasius’s breath hitched as he took in the sight, his heart pounding in his chest. He stood motionless, still peering over the figure’s shoulder. The breath felt heavy, as though the air itself resisted him. The whispering from the tome grew clearer now, each word an incomprehensible echo that tugged at the edges of his understanding.

What truly arrested him, however, was the ink. It moved—no, it flowed—across the page, forming and reforming shapes that defied language or logic. Runes morphed into images; images splintered into letters; letters spiraled into patterns Athanasius could only describe as alive. He blinked rapidly, half-convinced his eyes were playing tricks on him.

The figure’s hand moved steadily, quill scratching against the parchment with a rhythm that seemed almost mechanical. Athanasius craned his neck for a better view, but as he did, the whispering shifted. It was no longer just sound—it was speaking to him. Or was it speaking of him? Words like “traveler,” “storm,” and “seeker” floated just beneath the surface of his mind, yet every attempt to grasp them left him more bewildered. "This is madness," he thought, his hand instinctively gripping the back of the chair in front of him for support.

And then, the figure moved.

Slowly, unnaturally, the head turned to the side, revealing glinting eyes that caught the weak candlelight and amplified it like tiny shards of moonlight. Athanasius’s knees locked as he fought the primal urge to bolt. "Well, this is it," he thought wryly. "Death by glowing-eyed librarian. Not how I imagined it, but fitting, I suppose." The figure’s gaze was piercing, unblinking, and yet oddly indifferent. It studied him with the detached curiosity one might show a particularly unremarkable bug. Athanasius, unable to tear his eyes away, felt a bead of sweat trickle down his temple despite the chill. The silence stretched, thick and oppressive. Then, in a voice that was neither warm nor cold, neither loud nor soft, the figure spoke.

“You’ve come,” it said, the words slow and deliberate. “As it was written.”

Athanasius swallowed hard. “I—pardon me—what exactly was written?”

The figure tilted its head slightly, as though the question itself was puzzling. “Everything.”

"Everything," Athanasius thought, the word looping endlessly in his mind like a bell tolling in the fog. What could have been written? He cast a nervous glance at the shifting ink on the tome’s pages, which seemed to ripple in time with his accelerating heartbeat. His mouth opened, his tongue fumbling for a response, but his thoughts spun out of control. Could it be… that I stumbled upon this inn in the dead of night, lost, on my way to deliver the— He froze mid-thought, a chill running down his spine. His fingers twitched instinctively, brushing against the pocket inside his redingote.

“That’s right,” the figure interrupted, its voice as smooth as it was unsettling. “The letter.”

Athanasius staggered back a step, his heel scraping noisily against the floorboards. The letter! His hand shot to his chest, confirming its presence as if he feared it might have vanished entirely. His eyes darted to the figure, which now sat motionless save for its right hand, still trailing the quill over the tome’s shimmering pages.

“How did you—” Athanasius began, his voice trembling, but he cut himself short. No. Don’t ask stupid questions. That’s exactly what eerie glowing figures want. First, it’s ‘How did you know about the letter?’ and next, it’s ‘Let me just sign my soul over to your cursed tome.’ Stay calm, Athanasius. Stay calm.

The figure didn’t answer his half-question. Instead, it stilled its quill and turned its head toward him again, those piercing, moonlit eyes seeming to bore through the fabric of his thoughts. “It contains much,” the figure said, gesturing toward Athanasius’s chest with the faintest tilt of its chin. “More than you know. A war. A weapon. A magician whose name is written in fragments across time.”

The words struck Athanasius like an icy wind, leaving him reeling. He blinked rapidly, his mind racing to connect the cryptic dots. The Duke of York. The French. The war that had bled half of Europe dry. The letter—yes, the letter! It bore news of a discovery that could end the conflict, a weapon so powerful it could alter the balance of power. But no one had spoken of cannons or steel. No, the whispers that had reached his ears spoke of something far stranger, something far older. “A magician,” Athanasius whispered aloud, the word feeling heavy and foreign on his tongue. His own voice startled him in the silence. “But that’s absurd. Magicians don’t exist.”

The figure’s lips curled slightly, though whether in amusement or something more sinister, Athanasius could not tell. “Do they not?” it replied, almost lazily, as if the question were rhetorical. “And yet, here you stand.”

Athanasius’s knees felt weak, his balance teetering. He tightened his grip on the chair beside him, his knuckles white. The faint scratches he had heard earlier—mice, or so he had convinced himself—now seemed less incidental. Somewhere above them, the storm howled like a living thing, the wind rattling the eaves and carrying with it a ghostly screech. A tiny boreal owl perched in the attic, its wide, unblinking eyes watching this uncanny scene unfold.

Desperate to ground himself, Athanasius shifted his gaze from the figure’s unsettling eyes to the tome lying between them. The pages seemed alive, the ink swirling into new shapes as he stared. Lines of text formed, shifted, and dissolved into images—cities crumbling, armies marching, and a shadowy figure cloaked in fire and mist. His breath hitched, his sense of dread mounting. But what caught his attention most wasn’t the fantastical images or the shifting ink—it was the single, stark line of text that refused to change. It rested at the bottom of the page, bold and unyielding, as though inscribed with purpose:

“The bearer of the letter heralds the magician’s return.”

Suddenly, the figure’s right hand stilled. It rose slowly, deliberately, and rested on Athanasius’s left shoulder. In that instant, his vision was overwhelmed.

Scenes of war and devastation flooded his mind—fields scorched black, cities reduced to rubble, and the anguished cries of countless souls. Soldiers clashed beneath stormy skies, their faces twisted with fear and fury. A monstrous weapon, unlike anything the world had ever conceived, loomed in the distance, pulsing with an eerie, otherworldly light. It was alive—or seemed to be—a horrifying fusion of man, magic, and machine. Athanasius wanted to cry out, to wrench himself free, but he was rooted in place. His pulse thundered in his ears as the visions intensified. He saw men fleeing in terror from a shadowed figure cloaked in darkness, whose mere presence turned the tides of battle. A whisper echoed through his mind: “The magician will return.” And then, just as suddenly as it began, the visions ceased.

The blizzard's howl filled the void, grounding Athanasius in the present. He blinked rapidly, his breaths shallow and quick. The room was quiet again, save for the faint crackle of the fire and the wind’s mournful whistle. He dared to look at the figure, but its gaze was no longer on him. The silhouette remained as still as ever, as though nothing had transpired. Above, in the attic, the boreal owl ruffled its feathers nervously. Deciding this place was far too strange for its comfort, it launched into the storm, disappearing into the snow-laden night.

Athanasius, meanwhile, found his body finally responding to his will. He stumbled backward, clutching his chest as if to steady his racing heart. Despite the terror he had just witnessed, an inexplicable calm began to seep into his mind, soothing the edges of his panic. It was unnatural, but comforting, like a gentle hand brushing away his fear. Before he could process this paradoxical sensation, there came a knock at the door.

“Athanasius?” called the innkeeper’s cheerful voice. “You’ll catch your death wandering about. Breakfast is ready if you’d like to join us.”

Still dumbfounded, he glanced toward the figure again, but the room was empty. The candle had gone out, and the strange tome was nowhere to be seen.

“Y-yes,” he stammered, getting off the bed. His legs felt like lead as he stood up, each step deliberate and heavy. He paused before the mirror. There he stood, haggard but intact—same tousled hair, same crooked nose, same ink-stained fingers. He adjusted his redingote absently, taking comfort in the familiarity of the reflection.

Instinctively, he reached into his pocket to ensure the letter was still there. His fingers closed around the folded parchment, but something felt different. The pocket had grown wider, as though it held more than it had before. Curiosity wrestled with his lingering dread. Slowly, he withdrew the letter. Alongside it was a second piece of paper, aged and fragile, with edges frayed by time. He unfolded it carefully, his breath catching as he read the words scrawled in spidery handwriting:

"The bearer of the letter heralds the magician’s return."

At the bottom of the note was a tiny, intricate signature—an owl in flight, its wings stretched wide. He stared at the message, his thoughts a whirlwind of disbelief and questions. Who—or what—had left this for him? And what role did he play in this strange, unfolding tale?

Outside, the blizzard continued its relentless assault, as though nature itself sought to conceal the secrets of the night. Inside, Athanasius sat heavily on the edge of his bed, the note trembling in his hand.

One thing was certain: this journey, which had already proven to be extraordinary, was only just beginning.