Damn those sisters of fate.
The first thing they send at me after stepping foot on this mountain is a wyrm that tries to eat me alive—and then I have to sleep on its frozen corpse?
I Didn't get a wink. Not with the way the ground kept rumbling every other hour from avalanches or whatever else is stomping around up here. And it wasn't just the noise.
It was the daggers.
I couldn't stop thinking about them.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the way they pulsed. The way they grew—unnatural and perfect. They felt alive. Divine. Like my Æther wasn't just flowing through them, but being amplified. Sharpened.
I pulled one from its sheath and stared at it again. "What the Hel are you?" I muttered.
Staring wasn't going to get me answers.
With a sigh, I shoved the blade back into its sheath and got to work.
I started portioning up the wyrm meat using my hunting knife. For all the trouble that beast gave me, at least it was big. And edible. With the amount I packed, I might not need to hunt again until I hit the summit.
If you could call this a trip.
No wonder Father turned into such a monster. He had to survive this.
—
When morning came, I stepped out from the small cave I'd used as shelter and looked up. The jagged peaks above me loomed higher than before, the wind howling louder now that I was deeper into the range. Every inch I climbed felt like another wall between me and the world below.
How much stronger would I be when I made it down?
If I made it down.
I took my time that day—watching, listening, staying sharp. The more reckless you are up here, the faster you die. The cold wasn't just biting anymore. It gnawed at my fingers, my joints, my spine. I kept my Æther circulating constantly, reinforcing my body to stay warm, fast, and alive.
By nightfall, I heard them.
Long, low howls that stretched across the cliffs like ghost-song.
Niflheim Direwolves.
Big bastards. Ice-coated, heavy-footed, smart. They roamed the outskirts of Gisladir sometimes, but up here… they were different. Bigger. Hungrier.
And they'd caught the scent of wyrm meat in my pack.
I spotted them not long after—seven shapes drifting between the snowdrifts like shadows with glowing eyes. They didn't charge. Not right away. They circled. Watched. Tested me.
Smart.
I crouched by my bag, loosened my knives, and pretended to rummage through it. My back to them. Casual. Waiting.
The snow muffled their steps, but I could feel it—the crunch, the rhythm. Two of them broke formation, moving in tandem. Fast, low, ready to bite the back of my neck.
Closer…
Now.
I spun.
My blade met the first one mid-air—driving up, hard, through its jaw. Bone cracked. It dropped, deadweight. I twisted, kicked its body into the second one as it leapt, knocking it sideways. It scrambled to rise.
Thunk.
My throwing knife was already out, buried in its chest.
The others froze.
I turned, breath steaming, pulse steady. "Come on, then."
They didn't.
Just stared. Then, slowly, one by one, they disappeared into the snow.
I waited. Ten breaths. Twenty.
Still alone.
I crouched beside the bodies and pulled my dagger free, then got to work skinning. The fur peeled away warm and thick, a gift from the gods—or the mountain, at least. The meat I left behind, blood soaking into the snow.
Let the monsters behind me fight over the scraps.
I had more climbing to do.
—
The next few days bled together.
Climb. Hunt. Sleep—when I could.
I ran into more Direwolves, but none brave enough to get close. Apparently word travels fast, even up here. Or maybe it was the wyrm scent still clinging to me that warned them off.
Either way, I was alone.
And it was starting to weigh on me.
Silence is different up here. In Gisladir, silence came with warmth, with people in the next room. Guards outside the gates. Here, it was a blanket—cold and heavy. The kind of silence that made you forget your own voice.
I missed Rurik. Even his stupid jokes.
I missed the clang of steel from the training yard. The voice of my mother calling me to breakfast. Even Father's long, brooding pauses would be a welcome change from the emptiness.
By the seventh day, I reached the base of something far worse than any beast I'd faced so far:
The Cliff.
A sheer wall of jagged stone and black ice, stretching so high the top was hidden in cloud and storm. The wind howled louder here, rushing past the cliffside like the breath of some ancient god.
This was it.
Rimebound Gargoyles.
Stone creatures coated in frost, dormant by day, deadly by night. They clung to the cliff face like statues—unmoving, unblinking. But when the sun vanished behind the peaks…
They hunted.
In swarms.
I didn't make a fire that night. Didn't dare. I ate what meat I had cooked in advance, wrapped myself in Direwolf pelts, and tucked into a narrow overhang at the cliff's base.
Sleep didn't come.
The wind screeched above. And underneath it, something else—a deeper sound. Rhythmic. Subtle. Breathing.
They were up there.
Sleeping. Waiting.
I drew one of the daggers and turned it over in my hand. Its dark metal caught no light. Its twisted hilt still felt warm in my grip.
"Fenrir's Fangs," I whispered.
Supposedly forged with Uru—the gods' own metal. Their handles carved from the roots of Yggdrasil. Artifacts of the old world. Of the Aesir.
And yet… no matter how many times I held them, no matter how much Æther I pushed through them, I couldn't make them grow again.
Couldn't unlock that spark I'd felt with the wyrm.
Maybe it was a fluke. Maybe I wasn't worthy. Or maybe—
I sighed.
"Tomorrow," I muttered, sliding the blade back into its sheath. "We climb."