Kael's hunting had become a brutal art. Weeks had passed. He was faster now, leaner, his single eye piercing the mountain gloom with an unnerving focus. He knew the hidden pathways, the scent of fear, the precise moment a beast faltered. His rusted blade tasted of more than boar and wolf. It tasted of countless desperate victories.
Elian, strapped to his back, was no longer a silent burden. He whimpered, gurgled, sometimes even made soft, questioning sounds. Kael would murmur back, sounds without words, but filled with the fierce devotion that fueled his every breath. Elian was a constant, fragile warmth.
The mountains, however, held deeper threats. Kael had seen their tracks—scratches on rock that defied natural beasts, unnatural distortions in the snow. These were the creatures of legend, whispered about even in Dirtspire as the true nightmares of the wilds. The Ashlands, broken as they were, truly feared only these.
One frigid afternoon, Kael was tracking a particularly large mountain goat, its meat vital for Elian. The trail led him into a winding gorge, shrouded in perpetual shadow. The air grew heavy, colder than the surrounding peaks. A strange, metallic tang, like old blood and ozone, pricked at Kael's nostrils.
He froze. His senses screamed. This was not the cold of the mountain. This was something else. A profound, unsettling chill that sank into his very bones, a cold that felt like despair.
A low, guttural growl echoed from the depths of the gorge. It wasn't the roar of an Ice-Bear, nor the shriek of a Razorback. It was a sound that seemed to leech warmth, to suck the very hope from the air.
From the deepest shadows, it emerged. The Gloom-Stalker.
It moved like a phantom, its body a shifting outline of deepest shadow, barely visible against the gloom. Its eyes, twin points of sickly green light, glowed with an internal malevolence. A predatory aura radiated from it, a palpable wave of chilling despair that threatened to overwhelm Kael's senses.
Kael felt it. A cold dread that wasn't his own. It was a pressure on his mind, a whisper that told him to surrender, to lie down and welcome the cold embrace of hopelessness. His heart hammered, a frantic drum against his ribs. Elian stirred, whimpering loudly, reacting to the unnerving presence.
The Gloom-Stalker was a creature of fear. It didn't need to touch. Its mere presence was a weapon.
Kael fought it. He gritted his teeth, clamping down on the foreign despair. His father's face, twisted in agony under Carn Malach's boot, flashed in his mind. The dying warrior's whisper: Let hate be your flame. That memory was a burning ember, a defiant spark against the chilling aura. He would not surrender. Not with Elian.
He gripped his rusted blade. It felt impossibly light now, a fragile thing against the monstrous shadow. He knew he could not fight this head-on. The creature didn't move with physical force, but with a horrifying, supernatural grace.
The Gloom-Stalker drifted closer. Its green eyes locked onto Kael. It extended a claw, not to strike, but to emphasize the despair it radiated. The very air around Kael seemed to vibrate with a low, mournful hum, distorting his vision, making his single eye ache. He felt lightheaded, his limbs heavy.
Kael forced himself to move. He ducked into a small rock crevice, pulling Elian in after him. He pressed himself against the cold stone, trying to disappear, to vanish from the creature's perception. But the despair followed, seeping into the rock, into his very skin.
He felt its presence looming, unseen, outside the crevice. He heard its low, guttural growl, a sound that resonated deep in his chest, threatening to shatter his will. He was trapped. This wasn't a fight of muscle or blade. It was a fight of spirit. And Kael, for the first time, felt the limits of his sheer willpower tested by something truly alien.
Just as the despair threatened to crush him, just as Elian began to sob loudly from the chilling aura, a sudden, blinding light erupted from the gorge entrance.
It wasn't sunlight. It was a pulsating, earthen glow.
Bjorn stood there, axe in hand, his face a grim mask. He was not alone. Two other Vikings, heavily muscled, stood beside him, their expressions grim.
The Gloom-Stalker hissed, its shadowy form recoiling from the light.
Bjorn roared. It wasn't just a sound; it was a force. The ground beneath him pulsed, and a faint, shimmering aura of grey-brown light emanated from his thick, tattooed forearms. His skin, already weathered, seemed to harden, becoming almost like granite. He slammed his axe into the rock beside him, and a tremor ran through the ground, cracking the stone.
The two other Vikings moved. One, a woman with braided hair, leaped onto a rock face. As she moved, her skin also gained a faint, rocky sheen, and she gripped the stone with unnatural force. The other, a younger man, charged, his blows striking the ground with surprising impact, kicking up dust and small stones.
Bjorn charged the Gloom-Stalker. He moved with a heavy, powerful stride, his axe a blur. The creature phased, attempting to evade, but Bjorn's axe, imbued with that stony glow, seemed to vibrate with a solid, undeniable force. It tore through the shadowy form. The Gloom-Stalker shrieked, a sound of agony, its green eyes flickering.
The creature recoiled, its form momentarily solidifying as if impacted by a physical force. It shrieked again, a sound of fury and pain, and dissolved into the shadows, melting away deeper into the mountain's maze, its despairing aura fading.
Kael emerged from the crevice, clutching Elian. His single eye, wide with a mixture of raw instinct and shock, stared at Bjorn. At the flickering, earthen glow on his arms. At the cracked stone where his axe had struck.
Bjorn turned, his glow slowly fading. He looked at Kael, his expression unreadable. "You were close to breaking, child," he rumbled. "That beast feeds on despair. It is not of flesh alone."
Kael didn't speak. He simply stared at the spots where the dull, rocky light had been on Bjorn's skin. He had never seen anything like it.
Bjorn nodded. "Our people," he explained, his voice softer now, "we live within these mountains. We are of their spirit. We draw strength from the rock. From the enduring stone. It is the Stone-Strength. A gift from the peaks. It hardens our skin. It makes our blows heavy. It binds us to this land."
He looked at Kael's single eye, still piercing and direct. "You have no such gift, boy. You stand alone against the elements. Against beasts of flesh and beasts of shadow. To survive here, you will need more than a rusted blade and a stubborn will. You will need to learn."
Bjorn paused, his gaze deep, assessing Kael's unwavering stare. He saw the cold calculation, the desperate need. "The mountain demands strength," he continued, his voice resonating with authority. "And for those who seek it, there is a place. Come, child. Come to the camp. We will share fire. And perhaps, you will learn the ways of this mountain, truly."
Kael's mind spun. Camp. More Vikings. Vulnerability. But also, warmth. Sustenance. More lessons. The Stone-Strength. He had no power. He could not fight things like the Gloom-Stalker alone. Not yet. He needed to learn. For Elian. For the city. For Carn Malach.
He tightened his grip on Elian. He looked at Bjorn, then at the two other Vikings. They watched him with a wary curiosity, their faces impassive. Kael gave a single, curt nod. He would accept the offer. Not out of trust, but out of brutal, desperate necessity. He would take what he needed. And he would remain a ghost, even among them.