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The point of a dagger slid and swiveled inside the trigger’s narrow slot.

Rasps could be heard as the end of the blade drifted across the diminutive slit, jarring with the tap of steel on metal and stone, which were embedded deep into the rail of the rifle’s trigger. After what he believed to be more than one hour of work, such noise had worn Marek’s ears into soreness.

It was an impractical way of using a dirk, and far from convenient, but Marek could not get nitpicky with his tools. If any, he should be grateful that there was a stable worktop at his disposal.

Something clicked — the unmistakable sound of a spring stretching free, unfettered from obstructive shards. Marek vented a puff that, until that moment, he had been obliviously containing. “Finally…”

After laying his dagger on the table, Marek lifted the assembled rifle and gave it an upward survey. With the firearm high, the fighter tapped the side of the rifle, cleaning the leftovers loosely stored inside, which tipped when they fell onto the granite.

Marek set his finger around the trigger thereafter, testing the smoothness of the lever by applying pressure. The pull generated a scratchy but faint creak, the complaint of a weapon telling its wielder that unbrokenness was no longer among its features.

Nonetheless, during his inspection, Marek confirmed that the trigger circumvented blockage. Sure, the best days of the device were gone, but like a stubborn war veteran, it could still bark and bite, or spit lead and fire, in this case, as long as additional force was applied upon shooting.

“That checks out,” Marek commented, his face more relaxed than moments ago, although seemingly far from satisfied. “Now… What’s next?” Marek drew the apparatus closer to his face, eyes tracing the gunmetal length and scanning each imperfection individually.

Stress found its way back to his mien — two seconds in, and Marek already spotted the potential causes of his demise. Torn metal bent inwardly, ready to split apart and detonate the projectile prematurely, to make it explode before the cylinder could reach the end of the muzzle.

“Using a rifle as a shield… Brilliant…” Marek released a humorless huff, accompanied by a half-hearted laugh that masked his slight frustration. His dissatisfaction, however, not only stemmed from the job yet to be done but also from the time it took to attain advances.

With the rifle still in his arms, Marek turned to the window, noticing how the light projected through the hole shifted from the last place he glanced at, how the dusty orange tone began to pierce the dense clouds, only to be blurred by the increasing fog.

Daylight approached its end, and everything he accomplished was unclogging a string and smoothing down a sliver of metal.

Marek adjusted his gaze on the firearm before setting it atop the rocky table with apparent calm. Brown eyes glued themselves onto the metallic length, conveying no emotion in what appeared to be an absent stare.

His mind was absorbed for several moments, but not because of the weapon or its state of repair. Ever since Sigrid went on her way to bathe, his thoughts had been whirling into a mess. Scrap that — his psyche boiled ever since he took that peck of hers.

Labial contact was not foreign to Marek. He himself had shared several kisses with several types of ladies during his days as a mercenary; so proud had he been by causing the maidens to melt with the wet touches that he often bragged about his romantic adventures to his former compeers.

Mouth. Earlobes. Chest. Hips. Legs. Wherever the woman asked to be fondly attended, he obliged, and with the exception of one or two spots, he always fulfilled his partner’s desires.

All a womanizer in youth, yet, here he stood — out of focus, struggling to achieve the simplest of tasks within a decent time-lapse. All because an avian lady’s ribbing left him flustered and twitterpated as if he were undergoing puberty itself.

“Shit!” Marek swung his left arm in a sudden fit of frustration, its trajectory hitting a chair, toppling it over the snow-taunted floor with a muffled clatter. “I’m better than this! My attentiveness is toward whatever dangers dwell ahead. My focus is intended to keep us alive. Not to give her the eye!” The table banged as a pair of hands slammed onto its surface, causing everything lying on top to skip upward. “And that parading of hers… that naive night owlette can’t even conceive the true nature of her mischief. The way she dangled her legs… how she pressed her thighs together. Even now, Sigrid must be lying down the mountain, immersing in bone-shivering waters… glinting with wetn— ggrrrhh…”

Upon realizing his thoughts were trailing off into something more improper, Marek cut himself off with an exasperated groan, after which he lapsed into thought, upper body leaning over the table, head languidly hanging.

One breath. Two breaths. Marek spent the next minutes trying to compose himself. To keep himself focused in order to restore his impaired firearm to functionality.

I’ll… wait for your company, quite… eagerly.

But a grunt that stirred the snow floating around betrayed the effectiveness of his meditation.

Marek took his right hand up to his face and tried to wipe the emergent pink from his face with a rub. “Sig… she’s just messing around, isn’t she? Trying her hardest to cheer us up. Mimicking what other women do out of innocence. Unaware that her act might awaken a leftover of my former self.”

Hand back on the granite surface, Marek inhaled through his nose, raising his forehead in the process. Eyes closed, chin high, Marek let out a prolonged blow. Once his lungs eased the pressure of air, his eyelids timidly rose, and his eyes locked onto the derelict ceiling.

“Foolheaded. Insolent. And now, depraved. I haven’t changed in the slightest, have I? Being in war and love, I was and am a hot mess ready to blow up into disaster. Whereas, Sigrid is untainted. Immaculate for both human and monstrous standards. She deserves someone better than me.”

His oak-colored eyes remained absently gazing high, melancholy and uncertainty seizing his thoughts. In truth, Marek knew he was being dishonest with himself. Sigrid? Deserving something better? Perhaps it was true, but like who? She lacked the freedom to meet other people, let alone date and get to know them better; she could not fit into society.

Besides, as jerkass as Marek might consider himself, he had to admit Sigrid and he stood out as competent co-adventurers. And as intimate friends who enjoyed each other’s company.

That intriguing female of beautiful quills lighted up the arctic gloom with her beaky beam; her cushiony feathers and fur warmed him during the coldest winters; her melodious voice eclipsed the harshest of blizzards. She stood as the spitting image of someone who refused to give away her innocence to the challenging circumstances. Despite all the adversities she had been through, spotlessness rooted deep and strong in her heart.

Furthermore, she was an expert at wiping the slush with others.

Yes, physical attraction to her physique was undeniable; nevertheless, Marek could not deem himself a pervert when the rest of Sigrid’s attributes were equally to blame for making his heart aflutter.

A click resounded. It came from the inside of Marek’s mouth. “What if I’m wrong and she’s messing around?” Excuses — her peck felt genuine, and so did her shameless show-off. “What about the journey? We are like two dawns away from the Icing Boundary, after which I’ll be facing the most dangerous monster on the continent… Do I really want to bait Sigrid into a future with me when the possibility of dying within the next few days is real?” But what was the other choice? Marching along with an awkwardness comparable to their last conversation? No. Marek hated leaving unfinished business floating behind.

There was another tongue click. “Even less when it involves a woman.” Marek could no longer bury his feelings beneath the weight of his young self’s behavior. Moreover, on no account should he ignore Sigrid’s innuendo, had it been genuine — not even he could keep turning a blind eye to her coquettishness lest frustration would get the beast out of her.

He bathed with resolve as if his next task involved entering an arena. No more loose ends — any affair with Sigrid should be fixed before nighttime, he ultimately decided.

After another inhale and exhale, Marek lowered his gaze back to the rifle. “It’s not like I can push myself into mending this thing further. With how successful I’ve been the last hour in dragging my skull, I might end up worsening this thing.” Marek turned to the side of the table and retrieved his leather bag, stretching it to its fullest before twirling back to the rifle.

The steel of the apparatus was sturdy, but if water leaked into the inner mechanism, Marek’s secret weapon might be rendered useless. Marek draped the mocha-colored textiles over the firearm and used the four stones to hold the wrappings in place.

“That’ll do,” Marek muttered upon sheltering his weapon. Another lengthy exhale resounded within the shack. “Well… here I go. I don’t think what remains of my pride survives what is about to transpire. Seolvor, have mercy on my soul…”

Marek passed the next minutes gathering his weapons — Dalavut on his left, and Iousterard to his right. The runed sword, too, was tied to his belt, right next to the longsword, clothed in a modified sheath previously belonging to one of his missing dirks.

He would rather be caught nude than caught unarmed.

After taking his bladed weapons, Marek moved next to the entrance, the gap inviting strands of haze inside the shack. And with the fuming smog, coldness followed.

“I must be deranged to want to take a dip within the confines of this icebox… again.” Upon noticing the increase in temperatures, Marek walked to the chair behind the table, wherein his manticore-made cloak hung. It had been calid enough when the two arrived at the hamlet, so Marek opted to remove the piece of monstrous garment, but now that the temperatures were dropping, a layer of warmth came in handy.

One arm away from the cloak, Marek remembered another reason he slipped out of the cape: it reeked of decaying blood.

Marek cracked a smirk. “Poor Sig. Now I understand her better. A bath was more than needed.” His right arm stretched toward the cloak, but his fingers only got to graze the fur of the collar as a chiding voice reached his ears.

“ Follow~ me~. ”

He halted. “Heh?” Head spun toward the exit, eyes half-narrowed and brows knitted together, unsure of what he had heard. Was it the wind?

“ Follow~ me~ I’m waiting~. ”

Definitely not the wind. It was a voice. A maidenly voice.

“... Sig?” Marek drew his arm back, the goal of putting his cloak on no longer present in his thoughts.

“ Waiting~. ”

Almost rapt, Marek strolled out of the shack, looking for a better point to look out for the culprit of that jingling echo.

“Sig, is that you?” He asked into the moaning air, his undertone low and uncertain. “Are you back?”

“ Follow~ waiting~ waiting~. ”

Suspicion swelled inside the fighter. The voice, as captivating as it was, did not belong to Sigrid. It was faint, barely a whistle; it even felt unreal, as if ringing inside his head. It ‘sounded’ like soft wind flowing through pipes of glass.

“ I’m waiting~ here~. ”

But despite acknowledging the chant differed from his chimeric partner’s, Marek could not resist its allure. It compelled him to move forward, to ignore the coldness and the lack of visibility, and advance further into the smog-clogged landscape.

“ Follow~ me~ waiting~ for you~. ”

The little focus he could gather was used to rummage through his memories of his preemptive investigation about what Arctic creature could weave such charming vocalization. He recalled none; unless a wizard decided to hole up far into the North, no monster here had the capability to warp the mind or cast spells of a similar nature.

“ Waiting~ waiting~. ”

The call of the wind was insistent and surprisingly strong, so much so that Marek had already left the shack behind, unaware of the exact moment he began to shuffle ahead in the direction of the peak range.

Marek was dimly aware of his movements, only lucid enough to formulate thoughts. Mind tricks were not an exotic concept for him — the ex-mercenary had experienced the effects of many mental-altering spells. He even considered forcing his mind out of the trance, gathering his willpower, and breaking through the enchantment.

But if he were to succeed, what would follow? The enemy would remain in the hide, free to plan another assault on him or even Sigrid.

“ Waiting~ for you~. ”

Let’s take the hook for now, Marek mused. He knew that entrancing spells of any nature shattered once the target felt himself in lethal danger, or at least, their effects decreased in power. He had been able to pull out such tricks in the past; why would it not work now?

“ I’m~ Waiting~ for you~. ”

For once, I wish not to be mistaken, were his last thoughts before letting himself be guided by the sonorous enthrallment, obliviously trudging into a snare of ice, coldness, and honey.

—————————————————————————————————————————————

Time was running short.

Every second might very well mean that a claw, a fang, or whatever hideous weapon sank itself deeper into Marek’s well-being. Or a boulder accelerating down to his head. Or something worse. The unscrupulous Spirit, or ‘vixen,’ refused to make herself clear in her threat.

Not that further evidence of the danger the gaseous maiden meant for Sigrid and her teammate was required.

The rumbling brute in front was proof enough.

Sigrid avoided facing trolls — the biggest specimens had a strength that matched her own, and, while they were way slower than she was, their healing factors reduced any encounter into a battle of attrition that ultimately brought nothing but bruises she was forced to lick later.

The troll in front told her that the result of an encounter with him might not meet the norm. His height did not differ from other hefty males, but his body stood out as lopsided. The horns of his shoulders and head, the spikes protruding from elbow to knuckles, and even his crooked tusks were larger on his right side. Moreover, the length and broadness of his right arm also exceeded the left one by a considerable margin.

The troll was one among thousands. Yet, the symmetry of his frame, or lack thereof, aroused immediate recognition in Sigrid. Kiya had called him Boris, but Sigrid knew him by another title — Icicle Bash.

The boulder-like beastman, believed to have been torn apart by the manticores, or so she had heard from the wargs, returned to literally stand between Marek and her. The vastness of the Frostscape often narrowed in the most inopportune moments.

Time was pressing, and Sigrid had no intention of fighting the ogreling nor its lupine partner. The wind stirred and flapped loudly, the aftereffect of two remexes-equipped limbs springing free almost at their fullest, the quills at the end of both wings grazing the walls of the narrow gorge.

“Don’t let her fly up, Boris!” The wargess bellowed from behind, her ability to mask her presence reminding Sigrid that she could not afford to underestimate that sneaky wolven.

Boris let out a holler and charged toward Sigrid, his onslaught slow-moving as expected but stacked with savagery, toppling the shrines in his advance, reducing them to shards.

An airwave exploded beneath Sigrid’s feet, and her body was propelled aloft. The space was limited, fifteen feet and some more that later widened into a V as the height increased. It was no easy task to keep herself hovering, and an immediate soar up was not possible. But all disadvantageous factors considered, Sigrid eluded the brute, who tried to catch her with his long arms as soon as the chimera distanced herself from the ground, fat and rocky fingers stopping one feather away from Sigrid’s foot.

Bless the Spirits! Wait— no! Those picked a bone with her. Bless her wings instead!

A tribulation had been successfully averted, and Sigrid could breathe a whistle of relief, knowing she was closer to rescuing her human. But before she could blow through her nostrils, a high-pitched noise reached her ears, and so did condensed cold, right on her head.

Sigrid staggered mid-flight, battling not to precipitate down to the troll’s crippling limbs. For a moment, she convinced herself that she could sustain the flight, to not plunge, but a pressure coiling around her ankle destroyed the illusion.

Boris’s right arm, one foot and a half longer than the other, found its mark, and without waiting for a single beat to take place, he slammed Sigrid to the ground with tremendous force. It felt like a cart of rocks suddenly appeared tied to her ankle with how helpless she felt with the pulldown.

Sigrid’s lean figure crashed against the floor, the pain of the impact undulating across her muscles and bones, an intense ripple of agony that shook the very adjacent rock. Sigrid writhed within the brute’s grasp, releasing a shrill yelp; she did not have the time to keep vocalizing her suffering as she felt her body lifting itself from the floor.

The punishment for her failed escape had only started.

Gravity itself appeared to deepen within an instant, and her body thwacked the granite anew. Her back did not embrace the floor for long. One arm-shift, and her side was received by a shrine, which exploded into pebbles and shards. Another elbow twirl, and her back struck the wall, printing a not-so-humble spiderweb pattern on the rock.

You fat and ugly-shaped grey, leave me alone!

Exasperated — and numbed — of being treated like a rag doll, Sigrid raised her head toward her attacker and, in a flash, snapped with talons and kicks. Claws scratched against the brute’s hand, jarring as limestone. The wounds sealed themselves within seconds, and when hacks and slices failed to inflict enough pain, Sigrid scored with her beak, sinking her sharp pincers into one of the beastman’s broad fingers.

One twist of her head, and the finger snapped off with a wet crack.

Boris reeled, his mouth twisted, vocalizing his pain with a guttural growl, setting Sigrid’s ankle free in the act. But Sigrid’s breather was just long enough to regain her footing, unable to do anything but bear the throbbing sensation. After spitting the troll’s finger, she lunged at the brute’s head — if she could not fly, then leaping over her enemies was the better choice for escaping the senseless and dilatory skirmish.

Talons sank themselves into rock-like hide, and the monster, no longer gnarring in pain but in rage, wasted no time attempting to tear the avian invader off his frame. Desperate claws cut deep into the troll’s neck and shoulder, spraying blood like rain around and on her nival coat, her beak rendering his jug ears into a grisly stump.

But the utmost damage stemmed not from Sigrid’s tangible weapons, as Boris’ injuries mended themselves within moments, but from the she-chimera’s earsplitting shrieks, which boomed no more than one inch away from the beastman’s shredded ear. The glass-shattering shout caused Boris’ brain to cramp.

Half deafened, Boris fumbled in balance, thrashing aimlessly around, failing to directly take hold of his chimeric attacker, accomplishing little more than connecting lax jabs onto Sigrid and himself. The bangs snapped some feathers and peeled off others, but Sigrid endured the battering.

She crawled over the beastman in the same way she would climb a rocky slope, painfully slow but steady, half her body sticking over Icicle Bash’s shoulder, using his head as leverage to obtain the drive to push herself free. But a blur, dim and bluish like an aurora, shone on the corner of her eye.

And then there was pressure around her mane. The wargess bit her by the neck.

In short order, the snarls of a wolven blended into the beastly tumult that was Sigrid and Boris’ brawling. Talons frayed ogreish skin. Craggy arms caused bones to creak upon impact. Rows of fangs plucked fur off.

Perhaps, after taking Gruhulla’s gnashers directly, Sigrid’s perception of warg chomp suffered a revision, but Nija’s bite force ended up unexpectedly light; they could hardly pierce through the hide of her neck.

Nonetheless, the wargess’ addition gave the troll enough time to recover the needed footing to catch Sigrid, this time by her tail and, once the grip was secured, a leg. Boris pulled hard, and Sigrid had to commit both hands to cling to the troll’s back. Sharp talons rooted themselves into the skull and shoulder plate of the mountainous beast, the frenzied pull of the latter tearing his own tissue grotesquely.

Boris bawled, and so did Sigrid, the latter gathering forces not to lose the little advantage she had gained through the short-lived skirmish. But with a three-eyed wolfess clawing and chewing her body, her hold was doomed from the beginning.

Claws pooped out with a squelch, and Sigrid and Nija were hurled several feet away in the direction of the gorge’s entrance. Even as an unwilling ball of fur flying through the air, Nija did not stop gnawing at Sigrid.

The landing was nothing short of rough, and the two lupine monstresses rolled a few yards before the momentum of the throw died off. The troll, by contrast, bent down as soon as he removed the attacker from his towering body, clearly lapsing into a breather. His croaky breaths were harsh, his body hissing and fuming, the unambiguous sign of his wounds closing.

Even wrapped in a curled mess, Sigrid quickly recognized the cues — this was her chance to dash over and beyond the brute. She only had to get rid of a fanged shackle holding her leg down.

Sigrid thrived her way to four legs and kicked backward at her attacker. The fetter fell away but lasted less than a snowflake on her tongue as pressure resumed, this time on her hip. Another attempt: an arm and wing swipe to her behind, but only the air generated by the movement touched Nija.

An irascible growl and head twirl, and Sigrid opted to take a more direct approach as her insistent harasser. Beak and talons went in pursuit, aiming for the wolven’s jaw. Her natural weapons caught nothing but the smog of Nija’s breath.

With a speed that vied with Sigrid’s, Nija skipped back just in time to elude the merciless knives of the owl-wolfess. It was an annoying charade that accomplished nothing but wasting Sigrid’s precious time.

“Squirrelly barker!” Sigrid exploded. “Why are you doing this?! I didn’t even intend to kill you!”

“Nor did I,” Nija spoke in return. “Our ability to make decisions has long been stripped from us. We must obey our master.”

“Marc is in dire danger! Let me go! ”

“I’m sorry,” even on the verge of bursting with mindless anger, Sigrid could notice misery drifting along Ninja’s words. “This ends with your surrender… or your death.”

Nija stretched her jaws wide, and from their depths, a spark of wintery energy burst at Sigrid’s face. The blast clogged the owl-like eyes with a thin ice sheet that deprived Sigrid of sight. It lasted two eyeblinks at most, and yet Sigrid did not even have the chance to remove the ice with her arm before the lit wargess pounced forward and seized her collarbone, right where the vampire-inflicted injury throbbed freshly.

Both lupine entities yelped and growled at each other as their bodies wrestled across the rock. Sigrid’s remark on Nija acting like a squirrel was not off the mark — she frisked from foot to foot, from side to side, even shifting between floor and wall, slipping below Sigrid’s legs and wings as she made her trip.

Despite everything, Nija only found the upper hand in attacking Sigrid’s most recent wound, failing to spill blood on her own. As the brawl prolonged, the difference in power became evident — Sigrid did not gain the dismay from wargkind by merely chasing their tails; without the elephantine strength of Gruhulla aiding her, Nija could not dream of putting down Sigrid permanently.

Not even a minute in, one set of talons dug itself into hip muscle. Nija yelped, giving away the first hint of agony since the skirmish began.

Nija spun to bite the hand on her back, but was stopped as the other hand settled on her throat, the force of its grip obstructing the flow of air. Sigrid rose to her two hind legs, Nija mimicking involuntarily next. Struggling to breathe, the wargess could only witness how the chimera inched closer, how the crooked beak’s nostrils flared, thick with bloodlust.

The beak snapped with a shrill, aiming for the neck. But rather than feeling the stringy meat of warg, the chimera felt something way more sturdy at the side of her face. The rigid snout suffered a fracture, and the only blood Sigrid savored was her own.

Boris stood recovered, scarlet wounds replaced by the conventional crazing patterns characteristic of his kind, and within moments, grasped at a boulder nearly the size of Sigrid’s head and dashed it toward the owl-wolfess.

He was not even a good thrower — that had been just a lucky shot.

Sigrid had not stopped in her reeling when a wave of cold struck her face, the unexpected attack forcing her to release her prey. Her vision blurred. Her brain throbbed against her skull. Sigrid transitioned from battling two monsters to striving for focus, a time during which her awareness lessened.

Her vision cleared just enough to catch a glimpse of a boulder with trees as arms darting in her direction. It looked slow, sluggish, predictable even. Yet, with her head aching and snow covering her retinas, her reaction suffered a catastrophic delay.

She did not flee or counterattack. She barely had the chance to raise her arms in a desperate defense. The attempt’s accomplishments were negligible, and her unwilling interlude was rewarded with a heavy impact that smashed her against the wall.

Air was blasted out of her lungs, her ribs cracked as if they were a broken piano, and the vertebrae in her back rippled with a creak. Pressure abated, an illusory break that only allowed her to issue a silent caw as her body, numbed and weakened, fell to the rock.

Pulling herself together had become a puzzle to her. Such was the state of disorientation she was immersed in that Sigrid forgot what she was doing right before pain invaded her, what series of events had led her into this hole of suffering.

Her mind eventually unfogged, but at the most inopportune moment. One of the boulder’s broad branches heaved from below in what appeared to be a very primitive uppercut. There was no time to mitigate the impact of the punch: it caught her right below her beak, and just like a catapult shot rocks, her body was flung several yards into the air.

The world — her world — lost every trace of sound as her silhouette drew an arc in the air, haze whirling in her wake. She saw nothing, not even the white of the mist; her eyes projected nothing but the blankness of her mind.

Only when her body coursed directly to the hard floor, sound resumed. View retook the little color it had, and words began to form once more within. She did not think about the insidious entity that ensnared her in this conflict, nor about her two pawns who strove to put her down for good. The only reformed word that held any meaning was the name of her beloved human.

… Marek.

The parabolic line closed, and Sigrid was greeted with the hard granite of the mountain. In this instance, her consciousness faded into black.

At least Sigrid could take solace in not experiencing the crash landing.

—————————————————————————————————————————————

His very attention was ensnared — rapted — by the most otherworldly apparition ever witnessed since he set a boot into the frozen wasteland.

If he thought that the pull of the hypnotic voice was powerful, it had been because his eyes had never glimpsed the speaker.

The least Marek mused when he opted to travel to the Frostscape was to find a legged siren.

The culprit of the enchantment was a short woman with long locks painted with the black of grapes, the girl a handful of seasons into nubility. She bore the exotic features reminiscent of the people who lived on the Vermillion Islands, near the continental Gebaten at the far east, and was clad in a worn-out dress with an abstract pattern depicting a flower so exotic that Marek had only seen them in books.

Her skimpy dress, needless to say, was not only unsuitable to wear in cold regions but also unbecoming to use outside the home or a brothel. The bodice of her dress struggled to keep the ample bosom in place; half her thighs and everything down shone with bareness, contending with her pristine cleavage to see which drew more gazes.

Leaving the sheer sexuality aside, her countenance had an air of supernaturalness that entrapped Marek’s senses like a spiderweb.

“Brave traveler,” her lips, thin but shapely, articulated to release crystalline words. “Please, consider my words. On behalf of the people of the Frostscape, I request you to follow me to my sanctuary.”

Marek’s sense of time had strayed into untrustworthiness. He could not tell how much it took him to enter that pathway squeezed between peaks, how long he stood practically absent-minded until the entity strutted into the scene, nor how long he had listened to the maiden’s long-winded talk.

The entity, who identified herself as Kiya, spoke about the unfortunate state in which the Frostscape found itself; how the lack of faith had caused the land and nature to spiral into chaos. According to her, every catastrophic event that had transpired for the last generation stemmed from the settlers abandoning the cult of the Spirits, for casting their faith aside.

Marek might have been under an enchantment, but he was far from dominated. He was forced to focus on every word of hers, to track every movement of those alluring lips, but he was no slave.

First rule about mind-inducing spells: Never bring up your name. To give your very name in a bowl to a dominator and consider yourself crushed under her thumb. It was not an absolute rule that reigned over all mental inducement powers, but Marek was not eager to take any risk. Luckily, he had not lost all control over himself and succeeded in not spitting his name the moment the entity asked him to. She frowned at first, but ultimately let it slip.

During the maiden’s entire monologue, his hand hung at the side of both Iousterad and Dalavut, loose at sight, an imaginary forcefield preventing him from grabbing both handles. Nevertheless, Marek remained attentive; should an offensive action rise from the beautiful maiden afore, therefore ending the entrance, his ax and sword would practically teleport within his gloved grasp and subsequently snap like a cobra.

“The Gods from lands afar would not pity us. They care not about the children of those who left them in order to pray to the spirits of the earthly plane,” she went on, and Marek could not help but notice how the way she subtly moved her lips, how a light shift caused her breasts to bounce, was perhaps a bit too unbecoming to convey her growing distress. “I don’t plan for you to take the image of your God from your pedestal and put me there instead. After all, what’s a Spirit to a God?”

She raised her hand and uncurled one finger high. “One session. You won’t need to give your blood, sing, pray, or kneel. I only ask you to accompany me to my shrine and…” She crossed her arms below her chest in what Marek identified as a well-practiced movement to feign serious shyness while it ‘unintentionally’ flashed her womanly endowments. “Share a bit of that fervorous divine love with me. It might sound too earthly, mundane even, but just as the snowscape yearns for the summer after a harsh winter, we Spirits require the warmth of mortals, even if ephemeral. Such a trivial act won’t ignite the ire of your godlike patrons.”

Unbelievable. Simply astonishing. Ridiculous even. Marek was lured out of his shack, forced to listen to one of the most unconvincing chatters he had been subjected to, all because this exotic siren wanted to slip inside his pants?

The sole absurdity behind the entire act almost caused Marek to break through the hypnosis.

The creatures in this place. Few want to impale you with claws and fangs, whereas others want to be impaled by you.

Had Marek been a northerner, blindly attached to the religion that surrounded this place, he would have swallowed the act. Had Marek been five years younger, he would have considered himself the luckiest man alive.

The modus operandi of mind manipulators was like that: wearing mental shields down with fake promises and ridiculous rewards.

Could you imagine the outburst from the likes of Gruhulla and Madakai, in whatever metaphysical hole they now await divine judgment, the moment they learn the responsible for their demise — the Wargbane and Undeadbane himself — fell not to fangs or claws, but womanly charms?

Marek had to admit that the prospect was amusing and, for an instant, almost made him scoff.

“Do speak up, brave traveler.” Kiya stepped closer, not bothering to mask the intention behind her seductive strut. “Will you take pity on the people of this land? Will you share your fervour with—”

“Pass.”

The sound of the wind itself died down, and Kiya stopped in her tracks. “I beg you pardon. What did you say again?”

“I said pass.” His tone was firm, devoid of empathy. “Everything you just said… I cannot believe it.”

“Is that so…” Kiya muttered, most of her sultriness leaving her demeanor. “Perhaps there was a misunderstanding. If there is something about my exposition that confuses you, don’t be shy. I could elaborate further if necessary.”

“There’s something off, yes,” he blinked after saying those words, and Kiya mimicked the gesture upon noticing he would not voice his issues.

“Mmm. Will you tell me about it?”

“No.” Kiya’s brows twitched. “I retain the right to tell you my doubts, Mistress Kiya.” Great, I cannot even swear. Maybe it’s for the best; this might not be the best moment to taunt her. “I just wanted to let you know that I have no intention to share the bed with you.” Marek noticed how Kiya’s body tensed for a flash.

Her air of confidence, however, returned before he had the chance to blink, and Kiya proceeded to rest her finger against her delicate cheek. “My. Don’t tell me that my features fail to meet your standards?”

“Your appearance is the least of my problems.”

“Oh? What would it be then? Do you deem yourself unworthy to lie at the side of a high Spirit such as me?” Nothing to do with reality. “Has another maiden taken your heart?” … That, I concede. “Or maybe… do your tastes diverge from the norm?” What the hell—

“I did say,” Marek spoke up, “I retain the right to tell you my doubts.”

Kiya cocked her head and frowned just slightly. “Quite the brusque mortal, aren’t you?” Marek limited himself to tossing her a hard stare. “And inconsiderate at that. I take it you care the least about what catastrophe transpires within the boundaries of this foreign soil. Don’t you care about the invading monsters? About the wyrm who even now flies over the Icing Boundary?”

Marek let out a half-hearted snort, causing Kiya to curve one of her fine eyebrows up. “Do you really want to cajole me into believing you can obtain the capability to chase off a damned dragon?”

“We might not contend with the Gods, but we Spirits can still turn down the likes of a dragon.”

“The Spirits? That I may not know. But you? I beg to differ.”

Suddenly, Kiya’s mien grew more serious.“... What do you mean by that?”

“What I mean, Mistress Kiya, is that you are no Spirit. Not the same Spirit whom the northerners pray to, at least.”

A breeze passed by, moaning as tension suddenly took a drastic and silent escalation; a rope holding the arm of a catapult about to snap and release a rain of devastation.

“You dare to question my hierarchy, traveler?” The exotic maiden practically grilled him, the minor hint of a wrinkle emerging from one corner of her fair mouth.

“I do, indeed. You might deceive the simpleminded like the northerners, so webbed to their own belief, but not me. I recognize an elemental when I see it.” Marek’s eyes broke off from the entity’s dark violet orbs and trailed down and up her form; despite what it might have looked like, Marek’s visualization was merely analytical. “I must concede, however, that I’ve never seen an elemental associated with coldness nor with one bearer of enthralling abilities.”

Kiya stood quiet, shooting daggers through her almond-shaped eyes, wind coiling around her form, making her clothes and hair dance. The very air stirred by her emotions, which appeared on the verge of bursting into a storm, and Marek’s fingers inched closer to the handle of his ax, the man practically licking his teeth in anticipation as he waited for the least of threats so he could break through the spell.

But as the fighter formulated his first move, the wind lessened, and Kiya’s features, almost boiling mere seconds ago, calmed down into a more neutral expression — an expression that morphed into a sly and girlish grin.

Such an off-putting response provoked Marek to narrow his eyes. He had wished for an outburst.

“Alas, who could have thought? Your sharpness matches your comeliness.” She crooned in delight, taking her fingers to caress her lips. “Such gentlemanliness of you, admitting I’m, indeed, enthralling~.”

“I’ve no intention of flattering you, cold-hearted succubus,” he hissed back.

“‘Succubus’? Curious term. Never heard of it. But going by that grumpy dog face of yours, I guess you’re referring to my charming aura. Yes, that must be the only factor keeping your weapons sheathed.”

“It’s certainly a pain in the arse,” Marek recognized. “But I know the limits of mind-altering ensorcellments. Try to put a finger on me, and the little domain you hold over me crumbles apart. I trust I won't have to elaborate on what’ll happen after that line is crossed.”

“My~. Such are the extremes you’re willing to go to in order to preserve your modesty~.” Kiya chimed, her crystalline voice echoing in Marek’s ears in the same way a buzzing fly would. “Spirit or not, as a lone lady, my body craves the warmth of a handsome man~. Are you sure you’re going to let this charming lady pass?”

“I won’t deem an elemental who scared off an entire settlement charming if you ask me.”

“Such a bold tongue~,” a pink muscle peeked out and drifted across her lower lip. “It’s advised to hold it inside your strong-jawed mouth, as those are unbecoming to pronounce in the presence of a maiden of my spiritual level. It would be a shame to freeze it shut~.”

“Bring it on,” Marek’s fingers finally brushed the engraved handle of Iousterard. “Your allure is almost worn off, and I just need the least of ill intentions on your behalf to slice off that cute face of yours.”

“Oh hohoho~ my naive, brusque, and attractive adventurer~.” Fog grew in intensity, enveloping Kiya’s body, concealing her from Marek’s eyes. “The true scope of my allure has yet to be shown~.”

Upon hearing what he interpreted as the ultimate threat, the effect of the enthrallment was reduced to its lowest level, therefore allowing Marek to wrap his hand around the silvery ax and undress Iousterard from its sheath.

His view turned fuzzy, and the whiff rang in his ears. The elemental vanished in thin air, the little amount of environmental warmth leaving along with her departure. Marek could feel the coldness biting his cheeks and stinging his eyeballs.

He failed to realize when he first left the shack behind, but his monstrous garment — the best protection against wintriness he had in his inventory — was no longer hanging off his shoulders.

Well, shit.

Time drew out, and his gaze, steady at first, began to dart from rock to rock in search of the elemental. Sight failed in picking up anything, and hearing was not faring any better; not even the pad of the maiden’s bare feet traveled across the gorge.

Amid his fog-expelling breathing, Marek clicked his tongue. I hope she can't turn invisible. I heard some elementals could blend with the elements—

The right side of his neck was invaded by sheer chilliness, causing his muscles to contract helplessly; out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a half-blurred set of thin fingers.

“Brave and virile traveler from faraway lands~,” the sirenical intonation resumed, chiding right at his right ear, causing a myriad of chills to scatter down his body. “Your body yearns for a respite—”

A back elbow silenced the voice, but Marek felt no resistance. Any evidence that a woman had stood at his back transformed into an amorphous smog that fumed into strands around his body.

Illusion-casting of some sort?

“—that only a woman of my status could grant~.” The voice came back, this instance at his left. Marek spun, a battle-seeking snarl plastered on his face, and saw her in a gaseous form, devoid of colors and with dulled features.

Can’t you whores take a no for a response? He swung his left arm at Kiya, Dalavut taking the lead, and her head disseminated into a line.

Arctic wind hugged him from behind, gassy arms rising from the sides of his abdomen to his chest, where her hands landed. “Why deny that which the body desires?” Another twirl on the ball of his foot, and the apparition was gone, only to reappear heartbeats later. “You came to the end of the World—.” Ax chop. “—Wherein only beasts had greeted you—.” Sword swish. “—Wherein your only female company has been nothing but beaky manticorespawn?”

“Will you engage in battle, or will you continue with the pitiful snow job?”

For the seconds to come, Marek continued repelling the elemental, fanning her silhouette into formless mist, hushing her luresome voice, reducing it to a blowy moan.

But each attempt to finish the fight failed. Marek knew he was fighting a shadow whose persistence compared to an annoying mosquito in the middle of a wet summer. As long as the real Kiya remained concealed, out of the range of Marek’s magical blades, the struggle would stretch out indefinitely until his body succumbed to the ever-growing cold and fatigue.

Of course, he could cry out and hope for Sigrid to come to his side, but while he stood deep in the mountain, any sound would certainly be absorbed by the peaks’ eminent dimensions.

Wait. Marek willing to cry for help? Hell must be undergoing a harsh winter.

I won’t consider it twice. Marek made up his mind; with Kiya’s enchantment long gone, he was no longer bound to follow her, and so he opted to twirl to his back and run like greased lightning until the prominent mountain no longer walled him.

But as he tried to pivot on his foot, stiffness found its way into his boot — his movement could not be achieved. His gaze went to the origin of immobility, and with widened eyes, Marek witnessed how ice encapsulated all his calf.

“H-how—!” Not even a second, and he realized how: the mist-made doppelgangers and their futile soft soap were a mere distraction. Their voice masked the crunch of ice crawling through the ground and subsequently climbing up his leg.

“My. My. Departing so soon, darling?” Marek raised his face, his features a mixture of surprise and anger. With tightly pressed and bared teeth, the fighter looked at the elemental siren, her body vaporing and emitting a soft hum. There was a victorious grin drawn across her lips.

“Exasperating bitch.” Marek lifted his ax, intending to break the glacial chains with the end of the handle. But before he had the chance to hammer, the image of the elemental burst into a whirlwind, attacking Marek with blasts of hail and waves of chillness.

Damage was minimal and perishable, but the unexpected surge deprived him of his vision for an instant. By the time his eyelids opened, he witnessed how Kiya — the real, hued, and substantial Kiya — was striding in his way, her hands at her side, leaving their delicate aspect behind and morphing into diamond-looking claws.

Marek did his best to recover his footing, but the elemental’s speed surpassed his expectations. With a minuscule yet devastating delay, his weapon closed like scissors over Kiya, only to be stopped by the frozen talons of the ice maiden.

The taloned hands, which landed around Marek’s wrists, began to emit a fizz, and a sheet crept across Marek’s gloves. Leather offered little defense, and the man hissed in discomfort.

“Try not to move a lot, darling~. Frozen flesh is often brittle,” Kiya teased, her angelic mien seeping with loftiness. Marek, naturally, refused to abide by her recommendation and shook his arms — or so he tried. It turned out that her strength was almost as proportional as her nubile beauty.

“Good grief. What a stubborn man. I guess I’ll have to quieten you the only way a lady of my position could quieten a man~.”

Whatever hostile grunt Marek was about to slur met a premature end as the air was occluded from his mouth. His throat was not gorged open. His stomach took no strike. No part of his body was bestowed with crude violence.

Instead, what gave pause to his struggles was an assault stemming from the maiden’s lips directly at his.

Fleshy mounds brawled with each other in a one-sided battle, and because of pure shock and something else, Marek could not riposte. The intruding kiss, wet yet devoid of passion, asserted its dominance by thrusting the tongue deep into Marek’s mouth, female muscle subduing its male counterpart, tracing the row of teeth and caressing the inwards of his cheeks.

When the impact of the vocal attack came to an end, it was already too late for the human fighter: his body was not responding, and more surprisingly, his mind seemed to isolate itself from his senses.

Every second he exchanged spit with the elemental, his consciousness withdrew into a deeper and darker corner of his psyche, secluded from control over his own body. Within seconds, the little resistance he opposed was crushed.

That kiss was the true scope of Kiya’s allure.

“Yeeesss~. I did miss that~,” Kiya let out a lyrical moan, expelling her heatless breath into Marek’s face and down his gullet.

Then, the succubi-like kiss set in motion its next effect. His lips turned brittle; the saliva on Marek’s throat became frost, and his lungs jerked with sporadic spasms. Marek could feel how the veins at the end of his limbs contracted, how his hands and feet were slowly stripped of sensibility.

Kiya’s kiss not only deprived him of all mental faculties over his own body but also drained his heat away.

His chest hurt as if a bear were stepping on his ribcage. If this continued its course, Marek would unavoidably suffer a stroke and perish.

“E-enough.” Suddenly, the force exerted over his now-chapped lips ceded, and Marek’s body did not miss a beat to release a desperate sigh. “That was tasteful. For a man with such an insolent tongue, you’re an excellent kisser, Mister Traveler~.”

Kiya’s voice sounded a bit ragged, and her chest rose and fell with an accelerated rhythm. The kiss she started evidently got her worked up.

“Y… Bi… I…” Marek, floating in a mixed state of growing hypothermia and extreme hebetation, could only whisper meaningless words. Against his will, he stood a tad hunched, and his hands, both grasping his magical weapons, hung at both sides, waiting for an attack order that would not come.

“Mm~. A few short utterances. Surprising. Humans under my spell can hardly mouth when they aren’t screaming in pleasure.” Kiya flashed her teeth in a preternatural smile and then used one hand to take her hair out of her view.

“Bi… Bi… B…” Every pathetic slur of his words caused his chest to throb.

“Oh, darling~. I’m truly sorry, but you gave me no choice. You were more willing to die than share your heat with me~.” Kiya moved her hands up to Marek’s head, gently stroking his cheeks with her fingers, which threw their supernatural and lethal appearance to once again adopt their dainty human form. Elemental energy sprouted from her fingertips, and a thin layer of ice covered Marek’s cheek, eliciting a hiss from him.

“I couldn’t allow you to freeze and destroy yourself,” she licked her lips. “Not without delighting me first~.”

Kiya retrieved her arms and turned back, straight to her sanctuary. “Follow me. I have you at my mercy, but your pet roams free. There’s no time to waste.” After a fleeting delay where Marek only blinked and gasped, his boots, now free of a shackle of ice, trampled forward.

“Such a weird-looking manticore, indeed she is. I try to manipulate the weather to meddle with her acute senses, but I cannot guarantee she won’t interrupt our fervorous activity.” Marek screamed in the mental void that was now his prison, but his anguish did little to influence the course that his physical body was being led to. “Pray she doesn’t find us, Mister Traveler. Beasts often sour my mood,” she glanced over her shoulder, her look seductive but undeniably ominous. “Your possibility to survive in my bed shrinks if I’m in a sour mood~. ”

Marek could do nothing but helplessly watch as his body was forced to enter the ice witch’s sanctuary as if he were cattle ready to be killed inside a slaughterhouse.

Months of preparation, gone. Crumpled into bits. He went into the world of monsters, and what got him for good was nothing less than the image of the ideal woman.

Sigrid, wherever she was, would become truly vexed, and the entire fur would bristle and flare with anger, possibly deigning a beatdown upon him. Again.

That was, of course, if she had the chance to track him down in time because, against what he thought before his disastrous and embarrassing defeat, he was not eager to share words with the now-gone Gruhulla and Madakai.

—————————————————————————————————————————————

The darkness dispelled, and in its departure, the image of a looming dusk devouring and chasing off the last remnants of bright orange, too much like the jaws of a wolven closing over a herd of ruminants, appeared before her eyes.

For how long had she been lying on the rock unconscious? A ringing assaulting her ears, already on its way to fade out, suggested that she might have blacked out for moments, a period that, amid a wild brawl, more than often meant death.

Yet, Sigrid lived. Her entire frame, from bowels to bones, drummed with pain, but she lived.

Sigrid hastened to lift herself from the ground, an action to which her muscles opposed, throbbing and spasming with each movement, regardless of its complexity and exertion.

Nevertheless, she managed to pick herself up into a huddle, low stance before a voice bounced to her lupine ears. “I advise you to stay where you lie, Howling Talon.”

Her head laggardly turned in the direction of the voice, every angle of movement triggering a pulse of pain inside her skull. The vampire-carved wound of her neck, its pain now refreshed because of wolfish gnashers, also twinged with the rotation.

With fuzzy vision, Sigrid looked at the perpetrators of her suffering. She did not need perfect eyesight to tell the two, especially the ill-proportioned troll, who stood dangerously close to her prone and vulnerable form. Was she so beaten down to miss something with such prominence, like an eleven-foot ogreling, scant yards away from her?

“Wh— hy… whh h—vn’t you-u k—led me-e?” Sigrid lisped quite coarsely.

Nija gave no response for a few eyeblinks, possibly because of trying to get the meaning behind Sigrid’s almost unintelligible utterance. “I was entrusted to get rid of you. Whether that involves killing you or not is up to me to decide.”

Sigrid tried to arrange her position to face the wargess and appear less wretched; despite the complaints of her quivering and underslung body, she succeeded in adopting a not-so-graceless stance without triggering a hostile action from the giant of aflare nostrils. “Wh-hy… do t-this? Yuu… ha— hate h-er too-o…”

Nija angled her head two inches down. “Yes… I do hate her. Even more than other members of my kind hate you, Howling Talon. But a high entity like my master gains no control over a landscape without obtaining authority over its dwellers. I have no choice but to abide by her wicked commands.”

The wolfess raised her head, dejection palpable across her wolfish features. “You know. When I saw you shun her authority and throw yourself into her, a glimmer of hope returned to me. Finally. Someone who stood up against the corrupted and shameful Spirit. Someone who could put an end to my life of servitude at the side of that witch.”

Upon finishing that phrase, Nija’s expression underwent a drastic change, completely abandoning her melancholic air, twisting her lips into a snarl, and sharpening her three-eyed stare.

“But I was mistaken. And how frustrating it is to have your expectations rise only to plummet and crash into tiny shards. Howling Talon, wargkind’s biggest enemy, turned out to be a fiasco. ”

“I— never chose t—to be called… Howling T-talon,” the owl-wolfess retorted, her tone more of a hiss now that her pain had subsided into bearable levels. “I— never chose to b-be your en-enemy…”

“That much I realize now. Perhaps the most ambitious wargs used your existence to stir the clans. Drawing a common menace out of you to join the wargkind under a sole pack. Because based on how you fared against Boris and me, I couldn’t conceive how a creature who only bothered to escape managed to scar the perspective of many wargs.”

A growl grew from the depths of Sigrid’s acheful throat. “I t-tried to escape to save Marc, not to fight you. I wanted to take him from the clutches of that vixen you have for a master—”

“And how did that unravel, if I may know? Your arms, rumored to unroot pine stumps off the earth, throb by the simple action of holding your weight.”

Sigrid drifted her gaze down, clearer after many blinks, and confirmed what the wargess said. She just took a bone-shattering beatdown only to attain nothing. A complete waste of time and vitality that ended with the resurgence of the lieutenant’s gory signature. But what was she to do? Leave her beloved behind?

“Curious. For a moment, I thought that one human was your equal. But now that my eyes are open, I can see better: you’re his tamed companion.” Sigrid’s eyes snapped wide. “Perhaps he’s responsible for your shrinkage in savagery. The destroyer of the scarebug itself. What a deed… for a foolish human.”

“Don’t speak ill of Marc…” A hiss came out, and from the edge of her vision, Sigrid noticed how Boris hunched closer. She could smell his copper-stacked breath. “He’s among the few hoomans who have shown me kindness. Love.”

“Precisely because of that, Howling Talon. Or should I refer to you by another title? That Marc must’ve tamed that facet out of you.” Nija narrowed her eyes. “Maybe my master is doing you a favor by getting rid of that human invader.”

Growl mutated into a snarl, meaty corner twisting feral, and wolfish mane beginning to flare to its end. Her acute vision, unfettered from disarray, now began to dilate. The troll caught the hints and issued a threatening grumble, his humongous hands grasping at the ground, cracking the rock.

“I might not be free, but perhaps you could,” but as if blindness took her over, Nija went on with her taunts, belittling the owl-wolfess’ relationship with the human without regard for its effect on Sigrid’s mood. “Disappear, chimera. Turn back and don’t return. Erect a nest and connect with your roots. Only death and enslavement await you here. Soon, the transgressor that stripped your might from you will be gone, thus making you free once more.”

There was some truth mixed with the wargess’ words. In other times, Sigrid would have shredded to pieces any monster that dared to peel their lips at her. Yet, ever since she stepped into the mist-clogged gorge, she has been willing to negotiate with Nija and, much to her regret, her master.

Was it true? Has she been tamed with the passing of the seasons? Would a past, more beastly Sigrid have fared better against the duo? It was a real possibility, practically a certainty. However, as Sigrid thought about how grave her mistake of opposing battle was, she mulled over her life outside the night-omnipresent veil of white.

Had she been the monster she was at the beginning of her short life, Sigrid would not have been worthy to befriend Saku. Worthy of being Imbi’s foster child. And worthy of forging a mateship with Marek.

“No tamed…” She finally whispered a low peep that barely reached Nija’s developed ears. The wolfess jerked her ear and was about to offer a rebuke, but Sigrid kept going. “Giving you the opportunity to yield, to flee in one piece, doesn’t mean I’m a pet. That doesn’t mean I’ve become less dangerous.”

Sigrid latched her moon-like eyes onto the wargess. Nija could notice the bluish silver of her irises absorbed almost all the black and white of her eyes, and the bristliness of her tuft and fur, instead of flattening, spiked up even more. It looked like she was reverting to a state of primal anger, yet somehow, kept enough sapience to articulate coherent words.

“Marc and I have been through a lot of stress. We were to take this day and night to rest, to enjoy ourselves in the company of each other, to cuddle in calmness… But I guess it was too much to ask for. Some monsters like you and the troll won’t simply take the cues.” Sigrid bowed lower, every hint of agony now nonexistent. “My mistake was not stopping being Howling Talon. My mistake was treating you, even if a little, like a hooman. ”

“N— sha…” A grumble resounded, grating and deep. It came from Boris; it did not sound like the typical troll gnar. Were those undergrowls an attempt to craft words? Whatever they were, Nija seemed to acknowledge them with a short-lived yelp.

Sigrid’s subtle pose shift did not pass unnoticed by the wargess, who, likewise, stooped low. “Choose your words wisely, chimera. They might be your last—”

“I will hear the words of a pooch who folded to a vixen no more. I gave you the choice to give me Marc back, and you refused… If you think that being coerced into separating me from Marc will lessen your punishment, you are wrong. ”

The few strands of daylight were withdrawing from the mountainous walls, allowing the dark blue of the arctic dusk to flow into the ravine. Every inch the sunset light retrieved, the glimmer of Sigrid’s predatory eyes intensified. First like pieces of sparkling silver, then like two full moons.

Red was no longer present in the sky. The northern lights had yet to make their appearance. The Frostscape grew gloomy with a starless night, and darkness itself seemed to concentrate within that specific gorge.

The wolf fordrove the herd at last.

The lopsided troll and the lithe warg were about to know why Sigrid got the title of Howling Talon.

An aggressive bark rumbled, endorsing the lopsided brute to trample into the owl-wolfess, its intention obvious based on the thrashing of his brawny arms and the guttural vibration of his snarls.

The brawl of monsters resumed, and Sigrid — or better said, Howling Talon — aimed not to rush in Marc’s aid.

This was the hour of the night owl. The opening note of the wilderness was for her to start.

Boris, tree-wide arms heaved high, prepared to bang the she-chimera under his disproportionate strength, minded to thrust his enemy into the depths of the limestone itself.

No matter how sluggish trolls might be — a slam catapulted by their muscle mass and aided by gravity was guaranteed to catch a veteran warrior unprepared. It was the sledgehammer of nature. Sheer brutality at its finest.

All that bone, muscle, and racket… Reduced to a mere tantrum.

Only Nija managed to see. To witness how white and dusk became one, to see how the orbs of silver azure stretched into an aurora with a velocity never seen before, as if the very laws of momentum bent around the chimera, condoning her to accelerate to maximum velocity within an instant.

The wargess barely managed to change her position by a hair. She felt something that grazed the side of her ears, biting a dash of her hide. She wanted to believe the damage stemmed from a missed strike of the monstress’ natural weapons, but she would delude herself. The scratch had been caused by the unintended brush of the quills.

The subsequent impact generated a blow of chill that stirred the snow, raising snowflakes several feet. Howling Talon just collided with Boris with such impetus that the beastman, inheritor of over ten thousand pounds of sinew, recoiled several paces.

The crash was too much for the stubby legs and asymmetrical anatomy, and the brute unavoidably fell on his back with a whump that shook the few shrines that so far had remained untouched.

Rough-grained and sloppy, by the time the troll realized what had just happened, he beheld, with his human-looking eyes, the most fearsome of predators. Standing two-legged and stooped on top of his thewy and fat chest, begazing him with glowing eyes as if he were just another reindeer victim of her life-stealing talons.

Toeclaws secured on the monster’s pectorals. Rigid nostrils steaming with bloodlust. Howling Talon only had to inaugurate the hunting night with her song.

An ear-splitting yowl. The perfect fusion between a lupine howl and a strigine shriek. Thunderous. Lengthy. Majestic. Ominous. A call of impending danger for those out of view and hidden. A threnody for those who stood in the presence of the songstress.

Boris’ reactions underwent a fleeting increment only to command his hands to somehow shield his ears from the roar, his face writhing and warping as his eardrums cracked. Nija prevented any damage her aural membranes might have suffered by quickly flattening her ears with her legs, but the explosive wave nonetheless forced her to cower in pain.

The holler subsided, something that the troll could not identify until he noticed the bloodthirsty eyes focused on his face once again. No flying. No leaping over. She might lament it later, but Marek would have to wait until her foes lay dead at her paws.

And thus, Howling Talon snapped, directly for the eyes.

There was no time for a quick and effective defense — The watery orb popped slickly under the spear of a crooked snout, just like a berry between two claws.

Growls. Wails. Audible agony coming with different deep pitches. Humongous arms flailed with desperation, their aim true on all occasions, protruding spikes tearing layers of fur, feathers, and even hide, jolting Howling Talon’s light form from left to right, causing fragments of mountain to rain over the two of them. But any attempt to immediately escape the insistent chimera’s cling crumbled.

Something struck the monstress’ feathery back, something pulsatory and cold. So fixed in her onslaught was Howling Talon that she failed to pick up the whistle of the freezing breath when it was first charged. The she-chimera stumbled atop the rough-and-tumble beastman, but whether the avian entity registered the attack as something coming from a third party, Nija could not tell.

The pulse of wintriness’ only achievement was to grant Boris a couple of seconds more of sight. The sharp pincers connected with the second orb; instead of bursting the eye, the beak hooked itself where the nerves diverged and, without missing a beat, pulled backward.

A thread of flesh grasped at the organ, stretching thinner and thinner as the pull strengthened, fighting not to let its owner lose the right to perceive the color and shape of his surroundings. The fight was lost ever since the beak catenated itself in the organ — the nerves snapped one by one, like the strands of a rope, until the eye was utterly yanked off with the most sickening squish.

It was Boris’ turn to make his partner flinch, but instead of a bellow that showed strength, he screamed the excruciating agony the monster was being subjected to.

“NSHAA! SHAA!” Wailed the mighty ogreling, imploring for assistance.

For the next twinkling, Nija stood wide-eyed, witnessing how the fiercest form of manhandling nature had to offer was being applied over her monstrous teammate. Her heart weighed the chest down as if it abruptly transmuted into lead, and her pawpads, normally warm because of the constant flow of blood, went cold.

The consequences of taunting Howling Talon were anticipated — having witnessed what the legend was capable of, Nija felt like Kiya’s domination over her tingled because of the growing dread, almost compelling her to turn tail and run. The chains that bound the warg to her ethereal master cracked, allowing her to taste a dash of freedom with what she was born.

The chains did crack, but they did not snap.

The few growls of discomfort stemming from Howling Talons brought the lupine monstress back to the grim reality. Freedom felt so close, and now that all was for naught, Nija had to sow the fruits of her jibe.

The wolfess strode forward, making use of her refined acrobatics to jump and bounce off the wall and propel herself directly at the owl-wolfess. It caught the owl creature on the left, right on the red cut of her neck, her most vulnerable spot.

Jaws hooked themselves on and around the crimson rift, and Nija could once more feel the iron-spiced liquid splashing onto her tongue. Howling Talon winced the instant three hundred pounds of canid horsepower landed over her shoulder, renewing the burning sensation of her wound. She lacked the time to yank the new attacker, as one arm made her reel.

A mere setback, that was it. Howling Talon did not miss a beat in repelling the wolven, barely affected by the cuspids embedded in her exposed flesh; however, the uneven, living battlefield frustrated any attempt to grasp the elusive warg.

The addition of Nija into the brawl gave Boris the chance to take a breather — a deplorable breather, only useful to get away from his tormentor, to shove her away from himself, apparently done fighting for the Spirit’s cause. And without eyes, the troll no longer discriminated between ally and enemy.

Therefore, the beastman threshed about, careless about hurting his wolfish compeer. Nija would have admonished the obtuse troll, but the use of her muzzle was intended for battle only. By exploiting her swiftness and improved balance, Nija circumvented any attack coming from Howling Talon, moving at the right moment to escape from her gaze, promptly sidestepping from one broad arm’s trajectory, only to breathe easier when the astray strike hit her opponent instead.

It was a stressful juncture for the wargess, unable to let her focus wane even for a heartbeat. Birdlike yelps of anguish drove her to keep chewing at the chimera, convincing her she might have a chance to bring down the legendary Howling Talon. That every piece of fur and every set of quills she tore off took her further into victory.

Imagine what the pack leaders would think of her. The thrill of knowing that her pups, now grown to become hunters, would howl to exalt their mother’s deeds.

And Kiya — Mistress Kiya — would greatly reward the most loyal of her underlings with a lair of her own, one warm and pleasant, next to her master’s very holy and elevated chamber.

The prospect was more than promising, igniting her ambitions like never before. She felt light. She felt breathless. She felt… nothing like her.

Oh… for a moment, I forgot— Nija recalled amid her daydreaming. The paradox of her enslavement. The irony behind Kiya’s wickedness. The more Nija yearned for victory, the more she bent to the Spirit’s desires. —The chains were still there—

Pain spread across her back, and so the wargess was dragged back to the not-so-hopeful present. Howling Talon just got her by the scruff of her mane, arms bending over her head and behind to catch the slippery invader.

Like a beetle removed from the bark by a bird, Howling Talon hitched the warg from behind and slammed her against the mountain’s wall. The rock thumped, and a crack that matched the warg’s size was carved upon the surface, causing a pained whimper to resound around.

Nija, had she been in the position to analyze what happened, would be distraught at knowing her scuffle with Howling Talon — the challenge that would spark off recognition among the wargkind — did not even last a third of a minute.

It was only a strike, but it carried all the aversion the owl-wolfess had amassed during the entire rampage; Nija was exceptionally fast, but she was also considerably frail. After the slam and forthcoming drop, from which she could not wait to recover soon, Nija cramped to raise her head at the ongoing massacre.

Smeared vision spared her from the unsightly details, hardly discerning how Boris’ arms shifted from trying to push Howling Talon aside to despairingly using them to shield his most vulnerable parts, like the mass of his neck.

Nija could not see well, but she could hear every dissonant shout of the beastman’s excruciating suffering. Every grating of his bellows inflicted chills into the wolven.

After stripping the troll of eyesight, Howling Talon moved to attack lower. Strands of soft tissue were torn like paper. Fingers chopped off too much like cray staffs. Hump chest, which hardness matched granite, screeched as several keen clutches ran through the craggy surface until they sank, sloshing grotesquely and spilling blood everywhere. Flesh grew softer, and now the she-chimera was digging into the monster’s stomach like a fox on the wet soil.

Immortality turned against its owner; what used to keep death away now worked like an umbilical cord that held the troll hanging in a constant state of agony. Inner flesh was exposed to the air, then fizzled closed, only for it to be carved out again. The process continued — seconds for Howling Talon, a tenday for the old Icicle Bash — and the regeneration that put any medicine short of magic in shame was running out of gas.

Before long, trollish flesh closed more slowly and hissed with less intensity. The last few slices caused the bowels to spring out of their sturdy container, sizzling and emitting fumes that blended with the fog.

But the miasmal stench did nothing but increase Howling Talon’s bloodshot savagery.

Back in her animalesque mind, she knew that once she stopped, the beastman would do nothing but counterattack — to retaliate out of wrath — boosted by the desire of his devious mistress.

Hence, halting was not a possibility. Sigrid could not step into the darkness of the Frostscape now. Any obstacle that stood between Marek and her should be put down for good. And the only way for Howling Talon to attain that was for her to keep slashing and shredding red tissue until the warmth of their bodies dispersed through the cold stone and faded away completely.

“SHTOP!” Lupine ears twitched, but the onslaught kept its course. “SHTOP! PLESH!” It came again; she hesitated, then slowed down. Someone was screaming at her. “PLESH! PLEESH!… NO MURR!” It could be ignored no longer — A part of Sigrid returned, and Howling Talon was put on a pause.

“No murr… plesh… no murr…” The voice, deep but fearful, gruff yet wailful, came from no one else but the victim of her bloodlust — A Boris in the blink of death.

The poor ogreling had his broader arm enclasping his spilling intestines, throbbing like a swarm of eels, whereas his left arm was entrusted to cover his face; one of his eyes, regrown and pupilless, peeked at his aggressor with obvious fright.

“You… can speak…” Sigrid muttered to herself. Her bristliness was already flattening, although her eyes remained dilated into gleaming spheres.

“Murr… no… shtop…” The broken voice came in short gasps, the loudness of the roaring monster now reduced to a sotto murmur. “No… dha… no dha…” The troll shifted on the ground and curled, pressing — or trying to press — his organs back to their place.

“You are… surrendering?” Sigrid untensed, barely masking her surprise.

“What… are you waiting for?” One ear gyrated in the direction of the voice, and the head followed in short order. “End him. End us. If not… we might resume our battle.” Nija’s words came out in short pants.

“Pl— eesh… no m-mrr…”

“Heard him no more… He cannot conceive that once he heals… he’ll be forced to abide by the Spirit’s selfish whims…” The wargess tried to pick herself up, but her legs, shaky and hurt, disobeyed her. “We’re slaves… and only in the blink of impending death… can we find freedom… otherwise we’ll stay leashed at her side…”

Sigrid, more sober at the moment, thought for the next breathings. The clock did not tick for long before realization struck her. Not beating me further when I was unconscious... The taunting… She did it so I had the opportunity to kill her.

“There’s… no other way.” Nija’s trio of eyes was suddenly invaded by sorrow, shining wetly and half-narrowed. “Make haste. The moment I feel I can still fight, I will snap at you…”

A nocturnal glow flickered within Sigrid’s orbs, her demeanor neutral on the outside. She moved her gaze to her right hand, painted scarlet, dripping droplets of vitality over her latest victim, who did nothing but quiver in a fetal position.

Uneasiness returned to her, the resurgence of what she experienced in the creek. Now Sigrid could understand Marek’s possible reason to deny her advances — choosing her would mean secluding himself from the civilized world because, if the inopportune factors met together, she could snap into ruthlessness just as she did now.

I’m more than a ruthless monster… I had evolved past that. Claws balled into a fist. Nija and Icicle Bash, unlike other monsters, did not choose to antagonize her. Her keen talons and piercing beaks were made to kill the wild and the wicked. It would be unfair for the enslaved to be murdered by her claws.

For Marc's and my future, you two live. Observe how Howling Talon fades, never to return. Sigrid turned to the path in front. But now, someone whom I love needs me.

Hastily, Sigrid crouched on four legs and, after emitting a raucous growl, rushed ahead, resuming the route she had initiated who knows how many minutes ago.

“W-wait— you cannot leave us li-like this-s. Only you can unfetter us!” Nija howled while splayed on the floor. “You cannot go for K— our master! She’s not from this plane! Don’t think highly of yourself because you defeated her shadow! No beast or human can slay her! ”

Even in a hurry, Sigrid heard the loud weeps of the warg, which dwindled the more she darted out of the gorge until the moaning breeze was too much for the howls to pierce.

She might be a Spirit, the matron of many hoomans, but I’m still the apex predator.

The enclosed space and the two tall ramparts disappeared from her view, replaced by a colorless abyss filled with whirlwinds and currents of smog. At the left edge of the cliff, a road stood out, leading toward a protruding, humongous slab, big enough to contain Grætøh’s adamant entrance, occasionally emitting faint sparks. Land paths were a hassle; she would have to ride the winds.

We may not be friendly to each other, but if— when I succeed in getting rid of the vixen, you can finally be free, Nija. Just wait; you, Marek, and even you, Kiya.