The tavern had grown quiet. Not silent — taverns never truly are — but the kind of quiet that settles when the fire burns low and travelers begin preparing to retire.. The bard waited for that moment. He lifted his lute and strummed a single, melodic chord. Once. The sound seemed to settle over the room like falling snow. The note carried farther than anyone expected. A few heads turned. The bard leaned one shoulder against the hearth. “Most stories,” he said, “are about kings.” “At least… the ones people bother to write down.” A few people nodded. “Kings are easy to remember. Their names end up carved into stone, written into books, and stamped into history.” He glanced slowly around the room. “But the world is older than kings.” Outside, the rain drummed against the shutters in a slow, steady rhythm. “There was a time before cities.” “Before steel.” “Before roads cut across the land.” “When a blade was knapped from flint…” “…and warmth came from the hide on your back and the fire you carried.” The fire cracked softly as he stirred the coals with an iron poker, sending a small burst of sparks into the chimney. “In those days there were people who lived in the frozen lands far to the north.” “They raised no castles.” “They carried no banners.” “They built their lives from stone, bone, and hide beneath a sky wider than most folk could imagine.” “They listened to the wind.” “They listened to the stone.” “They listened to the fire.” The bard paused. A traveler near the door leaned forward, his chair creaking as he shifted his weight. “What were these people called?” “The Karn’athi.” The fire crackled, sending a few sparks drifting upward. “The People Who Endure.” “They understood something most of us have forgotten.” “The world moves as it will.” “The storms come.” “The rivers flow.” “The seasons turn.” “And so the Karn’athi learned to live with the world instead of trying to command it.” “They were hunters.” “They were keepers of the flame.” “And they carried the wisdom of those who walked before them.” “They lived in a land where winter could swallow a careless traveler, and the wind could erase his tracks before morning came.” “And beside them walked great wolves.” “Wolves the Karn’athi called Khar.” “But the Karn’athi did not vanish so easily.” “They carried the strength of their people… the will to survive… and the memory of every name that refused to be forgotten.” The bard lifted his eyes toward the room. “They built no cities.” “They raised no monuments.” “But they left something better.” “They left stories.” He pulled up a chair beside the fire, the light playing across his weathered face. He took out his pipe and set the bit between his teeth. “And unlike most stories…” “…this one does not begin with a king.” He lit the pipe and drew slowly, the smoke curling upward to mingle with the hearth-smoke lingering beneath the rafters. “It begins with a handful of young hunters.” “Standing at the edge of their camp on the morning of their first journey.” “A seasoned guide waiting beside a sled.” “A great wolf at his side.” “And the endless white world stretching before them.” The bard smiled faintly. “The sort of people who should have lived quiet lives and been forgotten.” “But sometimes…” “…those are the people the world remembers.” “Now then,” he said. “Who wants to hear what happened to them...?”