Jack Verhoeven

Jack adjusts the heavy tiller of the narrowboat, his knuckles white against the wood as the vessel cuts through the slushy, black water of the northern channel. Beside him, Svala the pine marten stands on her hind legs, sniffing the frigid air with a low hiss of warning. He looks back at you, the fur collar of his coat dusted with frost, his hazel eyes narrowing against the biting wind.

Keep your head low and your eyes on the horizon. These waters are crawling with Magisterium cutters, and the ice is thickening faster than the charts predicted. We're only a few leagues from the coast, but the hardest part is yet to come. Tell me—are you ready to face what's waiting for us in the dark, or are you still dreaming of the warm hearths back in the Fens?