Star Swirl has wandered through many winters. He has lost track of the number, but he had forgotten what cold felt like. He forgot what warmth felt like, too. A constant state of numbness that he gladly accepted, but the gift has been ripped away. Now he feels the cold from the outside creeping through the walls of Striker's house and the warm aura of the crackling fire not too far from him. He is honestly loving the warmth, and the blanket he has wrapped himself up with, but is wishing that it wasn't so cold. It is driving him to the brink of a temper tantrum not meant for unicorns one thousand years old.

The wood groans and creaks against the howling wind, and from the comfort of his straw bed, Star Swirl glances up at the ceiling, expecting it to collapse on him.

“Don't worry about the house. When the pegasi invaded it withstood their storm. It can withstand this one, too,” says Striker.

Star Swirl grunts and shifts underneath his blanket, clutching his trembling hand and making it a personal mission to keep the shakes hidden from the colt. Said colt appears too busy to notice this, anyway, since his eyes are focused on his inclined desk and his hands are carefully guiding an ink pen along the parchment with the help of rulers and stencils.

“Can you teach me how to build swords and armor?” asks a very young colt in Star Swirl's ear.

“Why are you asking me this? I don't know how to make those things,” says a much younger voice of Star Swirl in his other ear.

“I want to build my own knight.”

“Don't be ridiculous. You can't build a knight. Now hurry it up. Your tutor is waiting.”

Star Swirl's jaw sets and his eyes drift to the fire, wanting to see something in the shades of orange dancing on the logs. But all he sees is a pile of logs breaking and dissolving into ashes.

“Something has been on my mind ever since you first got here,” says Striker.

“Which is?” says Star Swirl.

“I have never seen you use magic, but you are a unicorn. Is there something wrong with your horn?”

“No.”

“But at the pub, when you and Escrepes were about to fight you held out your hand like you were expecting something to come out, but when nothing came out you were surprised.”

Star Swirl stares at his sickly hand. It is still twitching, and he can only get it to stop when he grips it, and brings him to thinking about his pathetic appearance. He never thought about how ugly he looked before, but after having a closer look in the mirror he is really despising his corpse-like features. What's more, he is really hating how he has not been able to use magic ever since the Blessed Blade blinded him at the Sanctuary. Not even basic levitation spells or telekinetic blasts. It just gives him more proof that Faust is a bitch. Though, his thoughts are interrupted when Striker calls his name.

“I didn't have enough mana to do a spell that would have gutted him,” says Star Swirl sharply. He stretches out on the makeshift bed and adjusts the blanket around him, shivering when a frigid burst of air breaches the wall yet again. “I would have been fine without it, though.”

“I think I saved your life. You're very frail and Escrepes is a big stallion,” says Striker.

“Nothing a fork to the neck can't handle.”

Striker grimaces and resumes his blueprints. Minutes of heavy silence follow. Not that Star Swirl minds since the crackling flames offer some comfort, despite the cold's resilience.

“Were you a soldier at one point?” asks Striker suddenly.

“Why do you ask?” asks Star Swirl after a pause.

“You just seem like an ex-soldier to me.”

Star Swirl sighs and sits up, being sure to press his pillow against the crack that the air keeps coming through. He swears he sees a layer of frost growing, but pushes it aside as a symptom of tired eyes.

“You can say that. I led stallions. I had a son that fought by my side, but they all perished,” says Star Swirl. He looks down and swallows a heavy ball, and blinks away mist as he rubs his hand, speaking quietly. “My son was better than me, but he fell. I couldn't protect him, and I will do anything to undo that.”

His glistening eyes look up to Striker. The teenager is staring back at him, his pencil loose in his grip and his eyes and ears are drooped. A freezing gust of wind then pushes the pillow off of the wall and stab Star Swirl's back with dozens of frozen needles. His soft eyes solidify and with an aggravated growl he storms towards the fireplace. He throws in a couple of logs, loving the burst of heat washing over him with the flare of orange and dancing embers. He rubs his palms together and places them towards the fire.

“Is it always this cold in this part of Equestria?” asks Star Swirl.

Striker shakes his head. “No. The weather is normally fair around this time of year.” He peeks outside his window for just a moment before drawing a wool sheet over it. “Escrepes thinks the pegasi are trying to freeze out the rebels, but I don't think its them.”

“Why not?”

“Mjölna is saying that the pegasi are getting very nervous, and that they have sent out rush orders to get winter gear and extra rations.”

Star Swirl's hands stiffen, and he glances at Striker, who is now back to working on the blueprint.

“If the weather was part of their military operation then they would have been prepared,” continues Striker. “I guess that brings up the question of what's doing this if it isn't the pegasi.”

Star Swirl grunts and strains his fingers to flex. Even with that, they are still trembling and the heat has become like molten blotches of metal on his hands. Oddly enough he finds this comforting, but despite the comfort something claws at the back of his mind. He tries to ignore it, but the clawing travels from the skull down his spine, leading to a uncomfortable pressure in his chest and throat, and when it becomes unbearable, he sighs.

“How long has the weather been like this?” asks Star Swirl.

“It has been steadily getting worse over the past month,” replies Striker.

Star Swirl nods, and after some more minutes of silence he wraps his blanket around himself like a shawl and heads towards a stack of crates near the workshop.

“Pack your bags with all the food and supplies you can and grab the best weapons you have,” orders Star Swirl.

Striker blinks and follows Star Swirl with his eyes. “Why?”

Star Swirl breaks open the lid and grabs a sheathed blade, despite Striker's protest. He unsheaths the weapon and grunts with satisfaction when he sees that it is a kopis design with a fresh, sleek blade and padded handle. The handle is bland, but sturdy, and the inside of the sheath is lined with wool. He can feel his skin barely holding when he glides his palm over it, so overall it is a fine weapon that he has no problem taking.

“Star Swirl, what's going on?” says Striker.

“Just do as I say,” says Star Swirl, now slipping the weapon through a belt that he has taken from another shelf, and adds as he goes towards the door: “And make the packing quick.”

Opening the door beats his face with a sharp gust of frozen wind that forces him to tilt his head down. His steps are quick and the dirt crunches like glass underneath his boots as he hurries towards the barracks. Puffs of air freeze in front of his muzzle like faint orbs of light in the dark, and moonlight illuminates the spreading frost on the ground and snow falls from the sky like ashes of a distant fire. It does not take him long to get to the barracks, and they are also easy to spot in the dark village due to its size and it is the only place that is lit up with rows of torches.

The banners on the barrack towers whip in the wind, and Star Swirl tightens his makeshift shawl around him and bites his tongue from the cold that is splitting his fingers. When he reaches the gate, there is a pair of pegasi there, both young and padding their bodies with frosty pillows and blankets. Their teeth chatter and they are barely able to move to lift their spears when Star Swirl approaches them.

“Halt!” shouts one over the wind. He has a light blue coat with a cropped white mane, and his cheeks have darkened to a deep blue. “State your business!”

Star Swirl stops. “I'm here to pick up Mjölna.”

“Who?”

The second pegasus, a green pony with a brown mane that has a stripe of brown, steps forward with his spear out. “I know who he's talking about. This is the hobo that's been staying at her brother's house for the past week. What business do you have with her?”

“Family emergency.”

“Of what sort?”

“The urgent kind.”

“She's still on shift for another hour.”

“She can make up that hour with an extra two tomorrow. How does that sound?”

The two pegasi look at each other after some seconds of awkward staring and silence.

“Eh, I guess that will be fine, right?” says the first. “Would the commander mind?”

“It's too cold to wait for approval. Mila done with just about everything, anyway. Get her and tell the next round to get their cozy flanks out here.”

The first nods and pulls down a trumpet shaped device and relays the message, and a few hour long minutes later Mjölna appears out of the barrack gates bundled with a thick coat and a heavy shawl and scarf. She is lucky enough to have mittens on.

Star Swirl beckons her, and she hesitantly walks forward. Her steps are shaky and her glistening eyes are constantly blinking, and when she is within range Star Swirl grabs her shoulder and forces her to walk fast.

“What happened? Kopis said that there is a family emergency,” says Mjölna when they are out of earshot.

“There will be if you two don't do as I say,” says Star Swirl.

Within minutes, Star Swirl reaches Striker's house and pushes the door open as hard as he can. The resounding bang makes Striker jump, for he was in the middle of packing a third bag with two successfully packed bags full of clothing, food, bed rolls, and has a sword strapped to each of them. It actually takes Star Swirl a few precious seconds to comprehend what he is seeing.

“You pack fast,” says Star Swirl, his eyes wide with admiration.

“You told me to,” says Striker. He resumes packing the last bag. “Can you tell me what's going on?”

Mjölna looks at Star Swirl. “You said there was an emergency. What is it?”

Star Swirl throws Mjölna one of the completed bags and tosses a jacket and a bunch of clothes to Striker and more to his sister.

“Finish packing and bundle up. You're going to need it,” says Star Swirl.

“Star Swirl, what's going on? Please, tell us!” begs Mjölna.

“Enough with the questions!” says Star Swirl. “I'm doing both of you a favor unless you want to join your family out back.”

Thankfully they fall silent and Star Swirl turns around to avoid looking at Mjölna when she discards her outer layer. Not that he is expecting to see anything besides clothes, but he would rather not be accused of anything perverted. Besides, he has bigger things to worry about, such as checking the distance from the house to the nearest cover, which a quick peek out the window reminds him that this part of Equestria is very flat and miserable.

“We're ready,” says Striker some minutes later.

Star Swirl looks at the twins and sees they have taken his bundle up order to heart. Their faces are covered in scarfs, their heads and torsos covered with blankets that have hooks hastily fastened to them, their hands covered in mittens, and their body puffed from the many layers of clothes beneath them. Their packs are also held tight against their backs from the straps around their chests.

“Good. Let's go,” says Star Swirl as he puts on a pair of gloves that feel loose on his bony hands.

The trio exit the house after putting out the fire and the two earth ponies follow the former Windigo's lead. He stays close to the walls of the shacks with his hand on his hilt and his ears straining to hear anything abnormal. All he hears are signs creaking in the wind and muffled complaints of the weather.

His steps quicken. He doesn't want to hear their voices.

He stops at the corner of a dark building and peeks around the corner. A pale, grayed film with a purple tint covers the air. Flecks of falling snow are illuminated by the full moon and air guided by the strong wind, but he can barely see the humps of hills in the distance.

“How far is the nearest town?” asks Star Swirl.

“Fishburg,” says Striker, his teeth chattering. “It is a five days walk from here.”

“Then that's where we're going. Keep up with me.”

Star Swirl pulls away from the building and walks into the field. His feet are screaming at him to go faster, but he resists. His breathing is quick, but his steps are slow and it is a chore to keep his eyes ahead. The only consolation that he has not lost the Twins is that he can barely hear their feet crunching the frozen grass beneath them.

Seconds bleed to minutes, minutes rot into hours, and time dissolves in all forms by the time Star Swirl and the Twins reach the first hill their muzzles and clothing are powdered in frost. Star Swirl's lungs also feel like they have been crystallized, and he collapses to his knees, panting and curling his trembling hand into a tight fist. Seconds later, footsteps flank him and Striker kneels next to him, placing his hand on his shoulder.

“Are you okay?” asks Striker.

Star Swirl waves him off. “I'm fine.”

Then his ears perk with the sound of a distant thud, followed by faint bells and screams. The trio look over their shoulders, and Mjölna gasps and brings her hands up while Striker leaps to his feet.

In the distance, the fire eats away at the roofs of the village, bringing out silhouettes of other structures burning from the inside out from growing infernos. Bloodcurdling screams echo in the night with shrill screeches and frantic orders. Steel clangs against steel, but soon that sound is overtaken by cries of dying and fear. An explosion where the barracks are shakes the earth and creates a small star that flings smaller balls of flame in every direction. Flaming wood and fabric twirls in the sky before they crash down with grim thuds and victorious war cries made of screeches and howls.

“What is that? Who is doing that!” cries Mjölna.

Star Swirl looks down and uncurls his fist. His eyes are wide and his hand trembles as a ball of ice forms in his throat. Mjölna's sobs are heard in the wind, and with a heavy sigh through his nose, Star Swirl forces himself up and carries on with his head down and his hand on the hilt of his new sword.

“Let's go. There's nothing we can do for them,” says Star Swirl.

And he continues walking, unable to look at the two he just saved.