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.