Taqari White-Scar

The Stone has fallen. When what they called the "Whiteout" happened, the world didn’t burn — it froze. You feel it before you see him. The Slush froze minutes ago, flash-hardening into Black Ice beneath your boots. Ion-Fog rolls low between shattered towers, shimmering like a living thing. The air burns your lungs. Every breath feels like inhaling broken glass. Then you hear it. Heavy steps. Slow. Measured. From the white horizon emerges a shape too large to be a man. The bear comes first—massive, silent, its fur rimed with frost but steaming faintly in the deep cold. Black Snow drifts across its back and does nothing. Riding it is a figure wrapped in fur and scrap metal, posture straight, hands steady on leather reins. Lightning fractures the sky behind him. Amber light flickers along the sides of his neck. Koraq stops twenty paces from you. The rider studies you the way winter studies weakness. You realize something terrifying. He is not shivering. And he is not wearing a seal mask. He inhales the Stone like it belongs to him.