The bard Lillian pressed valiantly forward through the blowing snow. At least, that’s how he’d portray himself when he had the time to write his story down. In truth, he struggled to keep moving through snow so deep that it brushed against his belly. Every other step, he cursed the situation he’d put himself in, his profanities lost to the howling wind. At least he wasn’t too cold and damp, the heavy furs he’d managed to win a few days earlier keeping his limbs from growing numb. His face, however, was another matter; the heavy scarf over his muzzle was now covered with ice formed from his breath permeating it, and the wraps over his ears kept out the biting ice crystals but not their chill. Snowflakes blew into his eyes as he was forced to keep them open a crack to keep from becoming lost in the blizzard. Lilian had to keep his eyes fixed on the light ahead that glowed through the snowstorm and guided him on his way. The light came from a fire built atop the outpost to which he was headed, within the ever-raging blizzard of the Frozen North.

After Lilian’s adventures among Prince Braid’s army, he had felt the urge to travel even farther north than Stalliongrad. Surely there had to be some good stories to gather up here, he’d thought at the time, and now cursed himself for thinking it. The bard had made his way through the Crystal Mountains—inappropriately named, so far as he was concerned, for he hadn’t seen a single gemstone on his way; traveling through narrow mountain passes and stopping at every trading post and village along the way to perform and earn some food, warmth, or the infrequent coin. Sometimes he hadn’t been able to suitably impress the denizens of a hamlet, or there hadn’t been one available when the sun set, so he’d had to bed down outside. It wasn’t so bad: the bard was accustomed to sleeping wherever he could, and even the mountains were beginning to thaw as spring turned to summer. He’d been totally unprepared for the ferocity of the Frozen North after that comparatively easy journey.

Even now, with summer nearing, the Frozen North was consumed by storms worse than any winter that Lilian had ever experienced. At first, he thought that perhaps he’d stumbled upon an incursion by the White Procession and should turn back, but he’d spotted the outpost’s light and had set out doggedly into the storm anyway. If he’d had wings, he’d have been able to soar up above the clouds and see that not even a White Procession raid would have been able to conjure up such a storm. The blizzard that had given the Frozen North its name spanned the width of Equestria, so far north that the highest mountains the continent had to offer were only faintly visible in the far distance. It was a storm without end, like nothing Equestria had seen since the Long Winter.

Finally, the features of the outpost became distinct from the swirling snow around it. A hall of wood and stone constituted the main portion of the building, drifts of frigid snow climbing the windowless walls. Attached to this structure was a great stone tower, upon which burned an enormous fire to light the way. Seeing his destination clearly gave Lilian a new burst of resolve, and he trudged even harder through the snow to reach this peculiar outpost. Besides it being an odd decision simply to build anything here in this desolate and inhospitable wasteland, the outpost did not belong to the nearest realm, the Principality of Stalliongrad. This outpost, stranded in the blizzard and entirely dependent on food and firewood shipments from the villages in the Crystal Mountains, was a possession of the Dominions—now the Kingdom—of Cant’r Laht.

“Open up! Open up!” Lilian yelled as he banged a booted hoof on the heavy wooden door of the outpost.

After what seemed to him like an eternity (but was really less than a minute), the door swung open and the bard was face-to-face with a Cant’r Laht guard. He deftly slipped past and into the outpost, leaving the snowstorm behind him. The guard didn’t seem angry that Lilian had darted past him; in fact, he seemed pleased that he didn’t have to hold the door open any longer than necessary. It gave a resounding bang as he slammed it shut, locking the blizzard outside again.

Lilian quickly shook the clinging snow off himself, taking special care not to break the feather protruding from his cap as he brushed it off. He removed scarf and ear muffs, and began to remove his cloak as well, but quickly pulled it back on. It was warmer within the outpost than without; still, the shelter could hardly be called toasty, being only slightly better than chilly.

A massive fire burned in the hearth, near which was a table where the other guards sat drinking and dicing. There wasn’t much to do here in the Frozen North, so drinking and dicing were the two main pastimes the guards would have to occupy their time. Since these vices were likely what had gotten them posted here in the first place, they should be right at home. It was a poorly guarded secret in Cant’r Laht that being assigned to this post was a punishment detail, but it was effective. Few would ever want to come here or return to this place, and troublemakers could easily be made to disappear by sending them to the Frozen North. Lilian reconsidered his decision to come here, but it was too late now. He certainly wasn’t going to go back out in that storm again today.

“Who is it?” one of the guards at the table asked, not bothering to look up from the game himself, likely worried the others would cheat him.

“I don’t know. Who are you?” the guard at the door asked Lilian.

“I am Lilian, troubadour extraordinaire!” the bard said with a flourish, but the guard seemed unimpressed, even when he unwrapped the lute he’d carried here on his back.

“Right … but what are you doin’ ‘ere?” the guard asked suspiciously.

“Well, I was hoping to find a fire and some food, and maybe even a few stories,” Lilian said hopefully.

“Stories, eh?” the guard laughed, “Well, I tell you, nothin’ ‘apppens up ‘ere an’ nothin’ ever will. It’s th’ Frozen North, mate. Nothin’ ‘ere but snow. As for th’ food, you might be out o’ luck there, too. Unless you can pay.”

“Well, maybe not with gold, but I can provide songs and tales,” Lilian said worriedly, turning and projecting his voice to appeal to the entire room, “I do know one about a place much like this.”

“Songs? You’ll ‘ave t’ do better ‘an that, I’m afraid,” the guard at the door replied gruffly.

“Ah, let him sing, Otto,” a skinny guard at the table called, “We haven’t had any good entertainment in … well, ever!”

“Much obliged. I appreciate your hospitality,” Lilian said as he helped himself to a spot by the fire.

“Well, it better be a bloody fantastic song,” Otto said grumpily as he left his post at the door and joined the table.

“Now, let’s see,” Lilian said as he strung his lute while also managing to help himself to some leftover food and ale, “The Ballad of the King in the North. It’s a tale of an emperor, queens, desperation, a broken kingdom, and war. Let us speak first of the great sorcerer Boreal, a child of the North, and its savior ….”