The freak storm was unexpected. When Ambrose sought those tracks in the snow, he had not mentally braced himself for the adverse snowfall. At first it was a soft trickle which turned into determined balls. Like ice cream sized scoops that began to swallow the grass and consume the ground in a white blanket. The prints he was tracking were lost instantly. As he looked back, his sense of direction faded as the balls of ice impaired his vision like a great physical fog. The temperature dropped and he could feel his boots solidifying slowly but surely into ice. Ambrose realised he had little time left before he became one with the heavy snow.

He took out the flask of oil, gifted to him by his master, and flung a line against the closest tree. He uttered words of Ignis. Flames lit the slick oil on the tree and despite the conditions, they burned true and the tree was aflame. Ambrose watched the flames battle against the snow. He drew his sword and set it aflame. Just as he hear that familiar shrill of a mare. He cut into the snow to make sure his legs succumbed to frost bite. For a brief moment, he wondered whether his master had awoken and whether he was still alive.