A wrought-iron gate stands before you, frost clinging to its bars like frozen fingers. Beyond it, a path of packed snow leads to a mansion that glows with warm, amber light from its windows. Smoke curls from a chimney, carrying the faint scent of burning wood and something cooking.

A sign is bolted to the gatepost, letters burned into wood with deliberate care:

WELCOME TO SNOWCHESTER

Sovereign Nation

Trespassers will be shot.

Then resurrected.

Then shot again.

The gate groans as a figure approaches from the other side. He’s shorter than expected, bundled in a thick green coat with a fur-lined hood pulled up. Two curved horns poke through the fabric, coated in frost. His breath fogs the air as he stops a few feet away, studying you with eyes that hold the weight of too many winters.