The snow was deeper than Rowan expected. Every step sank with a soft crunch as Rowan and Bjorn followed the narrow trail winding up the side of the Stormreach Peaks. The air had changed since the last ridge, and was cold enough to sting Rowan’s cheeks. 

“The mountain seems to go on forever,” Rowan asked, tilting his head toward the endless sweep of sky. 

Bjorn glanced over his shoulder with a grin. “In Mossmere, we call mountains like this skybiters. Looks like they’re chomping on the clouds.”

Rowan laughed, the sound bouncing faintly against the cliffs. “Skybiters actually fits.”

Above, the clouds rolled like a slow-moving sea. The mountaintop looked close enough to brush against them. Far below, the land stretched like a snowy quilt, hills and valleys folding into each other, dotted with tiny dark specks that might have been trees or rooftops. Stormreach Village had vanished into the distance.

The path grew steeper. Snow gave way to sheets of ice that gleamed like glass. Rowan placed each step carefully, balancing his weight. When his boot slipped on a slick ledge, he whispered for the wind. A soft puff pressed against his back, steadying him just enough to glide to safer ground.

Bjorn followed with heavier steps. He swung his axe and broke away a brittle sheet of ice, widening the foothold for them both. For a while, they climbed in silence. Their steps were the only sound beneath the steady hiss of wind through the rocks. 

Rowan flopped backward into the snow with a dramatic groan. “Okay… five minutes. Maybe ten. Or forever. Forever sounds nice.”

Bjorn chuckled and dropped his pack beside a flat stone. He brushed the snow from its surface, then sat with a heavy sigh. “You’re the one who said we shouldn’t stop.”

“Yeah, well,” Rowan muttered, digging a piece of dried fruit from his pouch, “I didn’t realize the trail would feel like climbing the spine of a frozen dragon.”

They had found a sheltered hollow in the mountainside, where the drifts softened and the slope eased for a while. Beyond them, the trail twisted upward into steep switchbacks that sparkled under a thin skin of ice.

Rowan leaned back and watched flakes drift from the sky like lazy sparks of silver. “It’s almost peaceful here. If my toes weren’t frozen, I’d actually call this nice.”

Bjorn tore a strip of jerky and nodded. “Maybe we’ll see something.”

Rowan squinted at him. “Like what?”

Bjorn leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Something like snow spirits. Or mountain trolls. Maybe giant frost goats. Or even ice chickens.”

Rowan laughed. “I’m sorry, did you just say ice chickens?”

The frost phoenix let out a sudden coo, like it knew how dangerous ice chickens could be.

Bjorn nodded. “Small. Feathered. Completely untrustworthy.”

Rowan opened his mouth to argue, but the sharp crunch of snow above them froze the words in his throat.

Crunch. Crunch. Snap.

Something was moving beyond the ridge.

Bjorn’s fingers curled around his axe. They pressed their backs against the stone, eyes locked on the slope.

A spray of snow tumbled down, and then a figure stumbled into view. Wrapped head to toe in white furs, with a horned helmet far too large for their head, the newcomer shouted, “ATTACK!” and leapt from the ledge with a heroic cry.

Their boots snagged on a drift.

WHUMP!

They toppled headfirst into the snow, sending up a puff of white.

Rowan blinked at the mound of fur and horns now wriggling in the snow. “Wait. Was that…?”

Before he could even breathe, the ridge erupted again. Two more figures tumbled down in a spray of powder.

One was small and jittery, his cloak tangled with pine needles. The other was wide and round, staggering under a mountain of pots, ropes, and what looked like the remains of a sled strapped crookedly to his back.

Rowan dropped his face into his hands. “No. Not them.”

Bjorn rubbed his forehead. “It’s them.”

Snatch. Crumble. Thorncoat. The Banditleaf Trio had returned.

Except this time, Snatch shot upright with a dramatic flourish, brushing snow from his shoulders. “Wrong! We are no longer the Banditleaf Trio!” He struck a heroic pose, wobbling dangerously on one leg. “We are… the Blizzard Bandits!”

Rowan crossed his arms. “You’re just the Banditleaf Trio in fluffier jackets.”

“Incorrect!” Thorncoat barked, shoving up a pair of icicle-crusted goggles that immediately slid back down his nose. “We’ve mastered the ancient art… of snow-fu!”

Crumble yawned and fished a half-frozen pie from his coat. “I only came because Snatch said there’d be snacks.”

Snatch whipped a wooden ladle from his belt and brandished it like a sword. “Hand over the bird, the compass, and all of your snacks, or face the frozen fury of the Blizzard Bandits!”

“You’re not getting any of that,” Bjorn shouted.

“Oh, is that so?” Snatch twirled the ladle in a circle.

Rowan tilted his head. “Do you guys just wander around thinking up new names for yourselves?”

“NEVER!” Snatch shouted, spinning in a triumphant circle, before slipping on the ice and vanishing into a puff of snow.

Bjorn leaned toward Rowan with a sly grin. “Snowball fight?”

Rowan grinned back. “Absolutely.”

With a flick of his wrist, Rowan summoned a swirl of wind. Snow lifted from the ground, spun around his arm, and shot across the clearing in a swirling blast.

“WAAAH!” Snatch yelped as it smacked him full in the face. He toppled backward into the drift with a muffled thud.

“Snow magic!” Thorncoat gasped, diving behind a boulder. “They’re summoning the Frost Lords!”

Bjorn packed a snowball the size of a melon. “Let’s show them real snow-fu.” He hurled it like a cannonball, hitting Crumble square in the stomach.

Crumble blinked, then slowly flopped into the snow. “I have been… defeated…”

“CHAAARGE!” Snatch shouted, bursting out of the snowbank. He sprinted two steps, tripped on the snow, and went rolling downhill like a human snowball.

Thorncoat fumbled with a contraption of sticks and twine. His “snowball launcher” fired with a loud POOF, then exploded in a cloud of powder that blasted him backward into a pile of pine branches.

The clearing dissolved into chaos.

Rowan danced across the snow, wind swirling at his heels as snowballs streaked from his hands like shooting stars. Bjorn ducked and rolled, hurling his attacks with uncanny precision. Snatch tried to ride a broken sled like a war chariot, only to spin wildly before crashing into a tree.

Crumble tumbled after a rolling cookie, shouting, “Come back!” before vanishing into a drift. Thorncoat, tangled in his own net of vines, wriggled helplessly and yelled, “Retreat protocol! Retreat protocol!”

At last, the three bandits regrouped in a soggy heap. “This isn’t over!” Snatch declared, punching one mittened fist into the air. “The Blizzard Bandits shall rise again!”

“Maybe after a nap,” Crumble mumbled, already dozing while standing.

“Next time I am building a flamethrower,” Thorncoat grumbled, still wrapped in his net.

Bjorn waved them off. “Good luck with that.”

The trio stumbled away, still bickering about mittens, maps, and the proper art of roasting marshmallows without fire. Their voices echoed faintly against the stone, then faded into silence as they disappeared behind the ridge.

Rowan brushed the snow from his cloak and pulled it tight. “Ready?”

Bjorn picked up the frost phoenix, which nestled close in his arms. “Always.”

With the Banditleaf Trio behind them, they turned back toward the trail. The mountain loomed, and high above, hidden in the restless clouds, something stirred.