It was early evening. The snow had not stopped falling, and the cold was biting, but Ivan didn't slow down. He had been riding since dawn, his cloak heavy with frost, his fingers stiff around the reins. The trees around him had turned to white statues, and the sky above was grey and silent.
The wind howled low, brushing past him like a warning. His horse's breath came out in quick clouds. Every part of Ivan's body ached from the cold, but his mind was sharper than ever. There was no room for tiredness. Not today. Not with what was coming.
He hadn't eaten since the night before. His stomach felt hollow, but the hunger didn't bother him anymore. His thoughts were heavier than his body. They pushed him forward, kept him upright. Kept him angry.
Then he saw it.
A small wooden sign. Old, worn by time, but still standing by the edge of the road.
Novostav.
Ivan exhaled slowly, his breath clouding in front of him. He had made it to the outskirts.
