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There it loomed, lofty and awe-inspiring, the place wherein his future reposed agog; a future held pressed underneath a trap of claws.

‘You’ll recognize it when you see it’ had been Georg’s words; the Governor knew that wasting breath on something only seen from afar would have been deceitful at best. But Marek, who stood with head tilted up, bathing in cold and shadows, was in position to take in every detail that made up the lair’s facade.

It did not take him long to realize the name Everwinter Blackpeak partially leaned to the inexact; the monument of draconic arrogance, built by the sigh of its proprietor Marek came to realize, was no blacker than the frigid tundra, or the snow-clogged mountains, or the crest of the glacial highlands.

It was, instead, built of diamantine ice, stretching forward and up until its tallness matched one third of the icing Boundary’s; a spectacle of asymmetry and spearheads appressed against the rampart and imbibing the immemorial air of the monument it was attached to.

Sheeted by frost, obscured by the everpresent shadow of the crown, it was not hard to discern the origin that gave birth to its title. Indeed; since from afar, Everwinter Blackpeak was but a silhouette obscured by the rampart. The eye of a jewel, lacking in luster, stamped with a crazing, embedded at the top of a throne’s backseat.

A cough reminded Marek that he had no time to spare and standing awestruck was not a luxury he could afford. He was no audience in that scenery but an actor with the duty to carry out a deed.

Contemplation done, he, with Sigrid beside, tramped his way up, from platform to platform; discovering walkable just occasionally, past corners and behind horns. It came as no surprise that a structure made for flying beasts was not made to be covered by foot; thus, after stumbling upon dead ends and risky cliffs repeatedly, Marek turned to Sigrid with a request.

‘Take us up to the entrance.’

How strange did his voice resound in the air; little did he think about the silence that had accompanied them both since they left the shack; communication was reserved to only calls of warning and mutual instructions, which had been rare.

Word exchange had been shrouded by professionalism, and the only time they could share affableness was during the last leg of travel wherein he soared up while embraced by the she-monster.

The boons of having a winged lady as a lover! The cushiness of her tuft; the scent of pine she exude; the way the air brushed him. He would hold these gests dear during harsh times.

Unfortunately, the trek came to an end, and the massive horn vaguely resembling the skull of its creator brought forth the pressure of reality. Breaking away from the cottony embrace of his lover, Marek advanced, ever so wary, next to the entrance, which was nothing but a hole that led to a spikey corridor, which in turn led to unexplored depths.

Hesitance should not germinate further — he would _not _allow it — so after swallowing dry saliva and firming his jaw, Marek pushed forward. He withal stopped upon covering a few steps; the thuds that followed him stemmed from his boots and nothing more; company was absent.

Marek turned to see Sigrid standing still; one claw flexing, the other clutching her chest. Her ears leaned low, almost draping, and her eyes, which had met with Marek’s the instant prior, had drifted away; she looked like a child who had mislaid the family’s sword.

A fissure expanded across his heart. The facade of professionalism had blown away; it was time for Marek — he and Sigrid — to affront the valediction and what that gesture implies: the possibility of not seeing each other again.

He sucked in a deep breath before turning back.

“Well, you accomplished it,” he drew Sigrid’s sight back to him. “Despite the adversities we have run into; despite all the headaches I have given you.” He offered a faint smile. “You remained faithful to your word; and now, it is time I honor mine. I go down and slay the dragon.”

Sigrid stood silent, her moonlit orbs focused on Marek during a couple of beats during which only the wind spoke.

“... Stoopid.” She breathed, eyes narrowing. “Speaking of our alliance as if it were a matter of commerce. As if nothing has changed.”

Her expression, no doubt intended to admonish, blunted his smile in the least. “We have come across many surprises, good and bad, I admit. But our stipulations remain intact.”

“Oxpoop… that’s oxpoop and you shall know that.” The talons on her chest clenched harder. “We are mates; we shall stay together and _fight _together. No stipulation should overrule that principle. No fear of mine should… It is unfair.” Whistles began leaking out of her beakholes.

“Unfair would be dragging you to a fight I choose.”

“As if you hadn’t done that before…”

Marek let out a laugh. “Guess I have done so. And there will be no day where I don’t regret what I’ve put you through. For that and more, you are not coming. I choose this imbroglio; you shall not suffer from it.”

Her wings tucked tight against her sides; whistles increased in cadency. “I am suffering right now. I’m such a coward; I feel so powerless. And you… you don’t make it any more easier with your swagger and that _doomb _smile on your face…”

Her arm rose to wipe emerging tears off her mask. Just then his smile came to relax; his eyebrows felt heavier, and so did his heart. The chatter they had the previous day hardly made this farewell, temporary as intended, easier.

A man of arms in past, shuttling from battlefield to another and without familiar attachment outside the barracks, Marek — prior to Aurelio’s demise — only experienced loss whenever his company underwent reduction, which was but a professional hazard. His job was his life, and his life had not gone beyond the missions given to him.

But now he could feel this burden the way his past compeers had, each time they lost themselves in a precious object held in their hands; a locket, a ring, a toy.

Marek closed his eyes and finished a breathing cycle — breathing in and out, deeply so — before reaching out for Sigrid’s claw at her shaky chest.

“My Sigrid. Nothing is further from reality. Don’t feel impotent after bearing my burdens the whole trek. I owe you my life, but before paying you back, I need to save it.”

“But I won’t be there!” She sobbed out, hand rubbing harder and smearing her mask with liquid sadness. “If you needed help, I won’t be there!”

“Don’t beat yourself up over that, Sig. Your company, godsent as it has been, was never intended to follow me past this point. If you were in peril, Seolvor forbid, what do you think I would do? I tell you: I’ll put my wellbeing aside; drive myself in the path of a freezing breath if necessary.

“For this day, I beseech you, let me worry about myself and only myself. Please, let me fulfill this duty knowing you will be safe, no matter the result.”

How selfish did that sound; why did he come up as a cretin whenever he made reason out of emotion?

Sigrid wept silently a bit longer before taking her arm off her mask, revealing watery eyes that contained more than a lake of tears. “You sound so roode. Roode and selfish. But I guess it holds a little bit of sense. And I hate that.”

Marek resumed his smile, a jumbled mixture of many sentiments — mirthless, apollogic, hopeful — and unlike what the chimera had suggested, they were all genuine. THe then took her hands off her chest and drew it to him.

“Sigrid, whatever may come, I want you to know you did more than guide me through this region. When I arrived, I had sought survival, and maybe a death worthy of a legend. But after knowing you, I realized that that goal was unambitious. After I knew you better, I came to seek something precious. To live.”

At his words, Sigrid’s eyelids narrowed further, wringing out another stream of tears. And before the tears could drip down and make a ditch on her facial plumage, she pushed forth, catching Marek in an embrace with arms and wings.

“Please, please! Come back; join me here! I’ll be waiting.”

Marek embraced back. “And there is no greater incentive than that.”

“And if you win and cannot walk your way back, scream. As loudly as you can.”

“If the danger is gone, I will. Until my throat aches and my voice is but a whisper.”

“Doesn’t matter if you can’t walk or crawl. I’ll take you on my back, and carry you back to the hoomans. I promise.”

“That I doubt not.”

They locked in each other’s tenderness, taking in the warmth so they could take it whenever they went. The harsh conditions might as well not exist; they could remain there, even for a whole night, and not freeze over.

But time never forgives; the embrace should come to an end. And it pained Marek to initiate the separation. He parted away, his arms unwinding from Sigrid with painful slowness until only their hands clinged to each other in one last display of hesitation.

“I love you, Sigrid.”

“And I love you too, Marek.”

Hands ultimately slid off each other; and Marek, with all the pang his heart bore, turned around. The image of Sigrid with her arm stretched was the last he saw before diving into the lair.

He could not glance back; the path was dangerous. Inattention led to misstep, and misstep led to death. He slid down and past a couple of horns, and when he had covered several yards downhill, it came the sound. Faint, but sorrowful; harmony effected from maidenliness and wilderness.

The howl of a wolfess echoing in the distance, a lament made song; it made his heart quiver like a fine glass before a chorus. But no matter how tight his chest felt, Marek never took his sight off the depths.

A single tear was everything he displayed; one tear that was quickly cleaned by his hand. After that, and with the howling still present, Marek adjusted the bag on his back and kept moving, deeper and deeper, toward his fate.

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

There he walked again, as it had once been intended; back to the quietness that being a lone wolf implied. He and the weapons of his, his frame and shadow tagging along; followed by no one but the echoes of his own boots, which no longer crunched but thudded as if stepping on marble, for he had arrived to a place where not even the tiny crystals dared to settle in.

The lamentation of a wolfess had lagged behind until they echoed no more; in its place, a moan arose, haunting him like a hum of nocturnal beasts. Was the air streams the singer of such a tune, or was it the steady breathing of a monster? The answer lay beyond his ears, at the end of this trap of slippiness and horns.

A trap indeed, for it sought his demise; this stretch of road had tried to get rid of him many times; by placing ahead a dangerous thorn, by putting a crack beneath his feet, by hiding a sudden fall past a chunk. Darkness made the trek not easier.

Would he fight in the dark? Would the wyrm’s bedchamber mirror the very architecture he had been looking at since he left Sigrid behind? All disheartening considerations.

Passed the minutes, and Marek stumbled upon the first evidence of progression: even ground. Minimal but noteworthy deed; at least he would not worry about rolling down into a set of spikes or a tight chasm.

He turned around and, for the first time since entering, looked behind. The gate leading to the sunlight was but a bright globe he could easily encircle with his thumb and index finger.

He must have covered no more than two miles, but given the sundry hazards hidden in the shadows, it had taken an hour if not more to arrive where he now stood. Naturally, crawling up and down was but a triviality for a dragon, and the horns, obstacles and traps for men, were mere handholds for such a colossal beast.

His gaze drew an arch overhead, and Marek noticed that the cave was not entirely made of dragon-made ice; less clear ice likewise contributed to the lair facade. It appeared that there had been a rift on the Icing Boundary and then the ice-breathing legend built the facade.

Intriguing — a matter worth capturing in paintings if not studying as a science — but not the reason he was here. Actor, not audience. Not a child with a book on hands, but a knight within the pages.

Surveyance concluded, he set his sight toward the end of the cave. Another globe, smaller and duller, loomed ahead, possibly as far from him as the entrance uphill was, although without the inconvenience of slantiness.

“I’m close,” sense of inevitability expressed in the plainest forms of speech, low and firm. Before moving further, some arrangements should be done.

His bag came unslung, and soon after, feeble clicks echoed nearby. He could not afford time reloading his device amid battle; he doubted a dragon had the patience to grant him that. The rifle should be assembled, and the projectile resting in the chamber ready to blast forth as the slightest pull of his finger.

Thuck.

His hands, the second prior busy handling metal, stopped moving. His breathing fell silent, and the down on his nape stood straight. What he had heard stemmed from no metal, for it was a blunt noise, not associated with the sharpness of alloys.

It had not been his boots — he was kneeling and unmoving from the waist down. It could not be Sigrid; not only would she not disregard her greatest fear without reason, but her pawpads hardly emitted a sound. And during his march inside the lair, not a single time a piece of ice had broken off the ceiling and fell.

Like him, an intruder lurked in enemy land. And it was _too _close.

Slowly, breathing kept low so as not to mess with his awareness, Marek lowered the bullet he was holding while he prepared the other’s grip for when Iousterard appeared. As soon as the tiny casing kissed the spread wrapping, a second _thump _ensued; heavier, faster; a beast rushing at high speed.

That was when his eyes flashed wide; that was when the flare of light manifested within his grip.

Marek spun right in time to intercept a line of fire aiming for his head. A loud clunk echoed across, the all so routinary racquet between steel and steel; Iousterard’s twinkle was overwhelmed by a red, and the cold the surfaces exuded lost strength before a surge of heat.

The impact, as pushful as it had been unexpected, sent Marek staggering, making him fall on his rear; a second attack came upon him, not wearing red but bright gray; and past the shroud of crackles and sparks, he saw an ax, and behind the ax, he saw a man. A man?! In a dragon’s lair of all places?!

The slash connected with Iousterard’s edge but Marek managed to repel it aside. More sparks spayed around, and the hit, heavens, was that man a human or an orc? The way Iousterard quivered after the impact leaned to the latter. Another elemental, perhaps?

Marek absorbed the force of the impact and transformed it into a smooth roll; now two yards separated him from this man who bore the strength of an orc. Nothing suggested the man was eager to stop his assault; either he had not recognized Marek as human or he cared in the least. He hoped for the former.

“Stop!” Screamed Marek as he held a low stance, unarmed hand stretched in front of him. “I’m human! I’m no enemy!” The man held his ax, the one engulfed in flames, high when Marek’s word seemed to get through. The unknown warrior stood still, his visage lit by the fire of his weapon. Yellow hair like wheat crops, with a semi-curled beard, short and thick; his eyes green like mint leaves; he was no orc, but his frame was just as imposing.

It was the living image of a northern warrior of legend! And added to his axes, it took Marek a few blinkings to identify the man before him.

“Mørk. Mørk Hæssen. Is that you?”

The man gave back silence; even his face seemed unresponsive, eyes dulled under the light of his blade. He had seen better days: his body was dented with many cuts and bruises; a welt on his forehead stood out more than the others. Blood was a common pigment across his attire, but Marek had the slight hunch most of that color did not come from the northerner.

“Who are you?” Articulated Mørk after a tense interval; he lowered his ax, and the flames subsided.

“Marek Blakesley.”

Another beat of scrutiny coming from Mørk.

“You are not from the Frostscape.”

“I come from the South.” Marek took the chance to pick himself up.

“From the South… You come to this hellscape from far and wide… Georg’s word flew fast; to see outsiders battling a fight that it’s not their concern. Georg must be desperate.”

“I’m not here for the gold, or for fame for that matter.”

Normally, expressions of disbelief, often spiced by sarcasm, went after stating his business, but Mørk reversed the expectation by not touching the theme.

“Where’s the rest? Your group?”

It was the turn for Marek to pause. “Dead. Killed by wildlife.” He noticed a subtle wince on Mørk’s brows; not daring to extract suspicion from the only human found so far, Marek puckered off another question. “What about yours? I heard you had company.”

“Company…” His impassive facade faded out, and his dead-eyed stare became distant. “They… They were… ghr.” Mørk interrupted himself with a groan. His face frowned, and he took his hand to his temple. “They all died_._”

“I see,” his expression relaxed. “Only two, then?”

Mørk stopped rubbing his temple and stared back, his eyes and expression as dull as before. “Yes. Only two. How ominous. The Gods don’t favor us.”

Marek could hear how the leather of Mørk’s gloves creaked under his grip. It was certainly discouraging: eight people, all adept in taking other’s lives, had failed the test of the Frostscape.

“Not everything is lost. We both are fit for combat. We have the means to attain victory.”

Mørk’s eyes fell to the ground; unconvinced would fall short to convey his expression.

Of course he is in no mood to lip. _Marek inhaled through his nostril before letting the air out in a swift sigh. “Listen, I know nothing of you but your name, and you know nothing of me. But there is something we know of each other: wanting the dragon _gone.

“Seeing you here alone makes me think you haven’t surrendered. Whatever your reasons to be here are, it’s not money, which makes you _reliable. _You have something to fight for? Even if that costs your life?”

Mørk stood mute for a few blinks, mulling over Marek questions with the most neutral of expressions. Passed a few seconds, and his chin rose, a gesture Marek took as a manner of nodding.

“Then help me. We can take the dragon down if we work together.” Marek sheathed Iousterard and stretched his arm; he was offering a handshake. “After all, we already got this far..”

Mørk’s stared drifted low, pointing to the open hand. His sight lingered for a bit too long, enough to make concerns stir to life within Marek’s mind. Was his proposition not good enough? Was it too direct? Maybe — speech was not his forte — but what other options did Mørk have?

Nevertheless, when the laxness of disappointment began to spread through his stretched arm, Mørk heaved his arm, sheathed his ax on the belts of his back, and clasped Marek’s hand.

“Yes,” he spoke, “I have someone to fight for. Yes, I want the damn thing dead.”

“Figured.”

“I still think we are going to die. But at this point it no longer matters. If I can’t win, I’ll make sure the dragon can’t win either.”

“Understandable. Alas, I have a reason to fight for and I rather live.”

“Being realistic, not pessimist. I’ll give it all and, if necessary, drag the wyrm along with me to _hell. _I won’t disappoint, and I expect you not to as well. There is no room for errors.”

“I won’t. Promise.”

A twinge of pain invaded Marek’s hand. For the first time since they met, Mørk showed real emotion; not in his expression or tone, but in the strength of his grip, which unfortunately had Marek’s hand enclasped.

“I see you are a few fingers short,” he observed.

“Yeah. A small fee for coming this far.” Marek did well in hiding his discomfort and jiggled his hand as a way to tell the tower of a man to unclasp his hand free. The message went through, and Mørk broke the handshake.

“Can you still swing a blade like that?”

_After that handshake, I hope so. _Marek thought while flexing his hand. “I can, but I won’t be swinging blades at the dragon. For that malady, I have a better antidote.”

Marek broke eye contact and walked past Mørk; he knelt before his wrapping, and resumed what he was doing prior to the blade exchange.

“What is that?” He asked.

“This is the ‘means’ I told you about. Have you heard of fire weapons?”

“I have. Some call them thunder-spitter. A glorified bodkin that roars more than it can bite. You plan on taking the dragon down with that?”

“You lag a few generations behind, Mørk. This weapon is a prototype of something yet not intended to appear in salesmen’s racks for another generation. Have you seen a fireball cast by a wizard?” He heard an affirmative hum. “Well, then let’s say that is a firecracker compared to what this device can achieve.”

There was one final _click _— the confirmation that the chamber was now occupied. Marek picked himself up, the wrappings once again slung on his back. Completely assembled, the rifle stuck out of the confines of the fabric so it would be easier to unholster.

“You have no idea how close we were from blowing up in pieces.” Marek turned to Mørk. “It’s wise to keep the magic of your weapons away from this weapon. You, too, shall stay away from whatever I choose as a target.”

“No way there exists a weapon this powerful.”

“Future draws near faster and faster. Who knows, maybe the ancient dragon can not catch up with human creativity.”

“So that’s your plan? Blast the damn thing until it moves no more?”

Curious, I mentioned exactly the same yesterday. Marek barely contained an ironic chuckle.

“Inventions had to be tested in one way or another. Also, what was your plan before we came to cross paths?”

“Sneak up and take its eye.”

“You think that to be better?”

“... No.”

“We blast it.”

Marek wended toward the clear speck past the shadowed tusks.

“The dragon lays ahead. If there is no other question, you go first and lead the way with your ax. I follow you.”

For the next heartbeats, Mørk did nothing; said nothing. Even his breath was hardly audible. But when the floor echoed with his heavy footsteps, and the frame of a strapping man moved beside and past him, Marek realized he had won an ally.

Seolvor be praised — he no longer had to face the toil alone! His future flickered brighter, a candle growing into a torch.

I’ll join you soon, Sig. Wait a little longer.

When Mørk finally stood at a safe distance, Marek began marching behind, following the beacon of fire toward where the dragon rested.

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

Her song had been keening uninterrupted ever since Marek disappeared past the geometry of sawteeth. Her wails rode the flecks of frost; they cascaded down along with the fallwinds and swirled up like the whirlwinds; an musical underlayment that moved with the flow of the atmosphere, adding feel rather than noise.

So long had passed since she joined the song of the wilderness; she had desired not to inconvenience Marek with the noise, not to annoy him in his sleep — such an obstinate man he was, uncouth to natural symphony. And now that her mate was away, she was free now; free to howl, free to wail, free to cry.

But whatever her beak produced was not a melody that represented the harmony of the wild; it leaned to tragedy. Her goal: seeking solace; from the wolves, the owls, and even the raptors. But at the edge of the world, who was there to stand as an audience? Who stood to join her chorus?

Comfort would not come, only the pang of uncertainty lingered; it reminded her that if adversity burst suddenly she would be relegated to a mere spectator. And whenever Sigrid reminded herself of her own helplessness, of her own fear, she howled more and more; so much she had to swoop downhill from the entrance so the dragon would not hear her.

Time ticked by and Sigrid kept lamenting, her notes intensifying and lessening in random intervals; she would often pad in circles, gallop in circles, fly up and down, only to stop and hug herself tight with her wings; anxious of finding hints of Marek, afraid of hearing something other than Marek.

What was she? A spouse in distress, or a loyal hound, stuck at home and anxiously waiting for the arrival of the hunter?

Too much traipse led Sigrid to sit next to the edge of an overhang, knees drawn tight against her chest and head resting between the tops of her knees. Her eyes felt like cotton, and her throat itched.

For how long will this torture lengthen? Why could not she stand by his side? The bite of that beast, however destructive it was, should not compare to the sense of impotence she was enduring. Sigrid considered the idea of swooping straight to the lair; nothing stopped her — nothing but a memory.

This revolting scent… it permeates the air.

No. Not again. Such a misfortune should not repeat. Her actions, like the time when Saku’s village was destroyed, would be insignificant at best and detrimental at worst.

It pained her like a fang in her chest, but she would have to bite down her reckless impulse and keep waiting. Such a conclusion brought no solace at all, so her eyes were beginning to build moisture again, preparing for another composition of sorrow.

At least that had been her plan until one of her ears caught a tone. With her head still sunken between her knees, one ear wiggled upright; the sound became clearer, and the other ear responded accordingly.

An animal cry? Unlikely — it lacked the softness of owl cries and the ululation of a wolf’s howl. It tried to mimic the cry of such animals, but it had a croak to it. Rough as it was, the noise sounded strained, hurtful.

Whatever produced the noise sought company, maybe even assistance.

Drowning her restlessness with tears no longer seemed her utmost priority. The odd cry made her lift her head and undergo a surveyance. The sound stemmed from the very formation she stood on, she observed, many layers of horns and overhangs below.

Hesitant, Sigrid turned her head to the entrance uphill. Still no cry of a man; still no roar of a wyrm; still no thunder of an explosion. Indeed, little she could achieve by letting her heart bleed out of impotence. She would look around and discover that odd cry.

At last, she picked herself up and dove downward, gliding along the betusked texture of the Everwintry Blackpeak, slow but steady. More than once she swooped past the source of noise; more than once she was forced to climb by nail and toe.

Her scrutiny eventually concluded, her senses leading her to a narrow pathway squeezed between too colossal ice wedges. The song became evident to her, and so did the singer, who was sitting at the end of the blind alley. And how unconventional that singer was.

‘Hurt’ was an understatement. The color of his skin and clothes had been undermined by red. His legs were bent in a painful arrangement. A sheet of his own skin hung from the edge of his jaw. It was as if a duo of bears had beaten him!

But despite his state of wreckness, he howled that rough tune with the same pride a pack leader would, with both hands — the two damaged, to no surprise — shaped into a horn and pressed against his mouth. Broken only in appearance, the man was surrounded by a dim aura that showcased the colors of fresh foliage.

Her head drew an ell out of instinct. Exhibition of magic should trigger Sigrid’s sense of alarm, but whatever etherealness the man elicited, brought a sense of tranquility. If there were a place where spring could be safe amid the Frostscape was beside that strange man.

“A— a hooman…” Her thoughts leaked to the real world in the form of whisper; the fake cry stopped, and the man, hitherto without displaying signs of life beyond the noise he produced, heaved his head toward the valley’s entrance.

His eyes, which held the last spark of life, met hers. His head tilted to one side; whether in curiosity or because he had no strength to keep it straight was hard to tell. And his mouth, the instant before ajar and dripping with red, worked, and soft words came out.

“Are you… her herald?”

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

“You aren’t with sickness, are you?” Mørk came to observe; a sequence of coughs had seemingly inclined him to make that question.

The entrance to whatever section loomed ahead had adopted ample proportions, providing a moderate source of light that brought about the shy outlines of shades and other elements theretofore hidden in darkness. The flame of Mørk’s ax had been dispelled in response, which allowed Marek to get nearer to the hefty man, close enough to hold a proper conversation.

Marek did not answer on the spot; the coughs would be suppressed silent before an answer would emerge. “I am, but such sickness is older than this quest. It is an inconvenience, but one that nonetheless hadn’t prevented me from coming this far.” A shameless understatement.

“Can we count on that _inconvenience _not interfering with our mission?”

Seolvor, I hope we can. “Its interferences had been rare—” Although mistimed. “—I’m confident that it will cause no troubles during our challenge.”

Hush of voice followed after his comment.

“Why come here under the influence of sickness? Wouldn’t it have been better to heal and then travel?”

Marek’s jaw wiggled from side to side before setting. “Healing is something I cannot afford.”

Another pause. “Terminal sickness, isn’t it?” Right on the dot.

“Yes,” Marek muttered. “Arcane Infection is quite a bitch. My time runs short; a cure can be synthesized, but the ingredient streams in the dragon’s veins.”

“Brewer’s special barley, I see.” A humorless remark. “So that led you here,” Marek confirmed with a hum, “and those who accompanied you and perished, had their own goals or did it because of you?”

His eyebrows twitched. Was the prelude of an accusation coming next? Maybe he opened up to Mørk more than necessary.

“They had an agenda of their own,” he managed, tone firm and direct. “Most had, at least. I was with fond company.” To his surprise, it had not been Sigrid who flashed in his mind after mentioning this; instead, it had been Aurelio. “There was this wizard. Our leader. Burst as much as his spells did, but was the wisest man I ever knew,” his voice cushioned. “He died. I couldn’t save him.”

Marek did not notice when his gaze fell, but when it straightened, he saw Mørk looking over his shoulder at him.

“Losing them must have been difficult for you,” he brought his gaze to the front. “Seeing those who fight beside you dying before your eyes is quite a shattering experience.”

“It is indeed,” his eyes went sideward for a moment. “But despite everything, I don’t feel alone. I might have started this journey with the goal to save myself, but the stakes are beyond that, and so are the rewards.”

“Quite the vision shift. What made you look past?”

A thin smile crossed his face. “A girl. A Frostscape settler at that.” Marek let out a snort, and Mørk’s eyes returned to the young man. “Such a fairytale-like occurrence. Merely spent a few days with her and now I’m willing to give my life for her. And with a dragon roaming free, threatening everything she loves—”

“So now you fight for her homeland,” Mørk added. For a man who held the word ‘mad’ in his title, his ability of insight was surprisingly honed.

Firming his gaze, Marek gave off a nod, quick and reassuring.

A green-eyed glance lingered around him for a twinkling before it once more was brought to the front. The next interval gave Marek the time to contemplate whether he opened his mouth more than necessary. Sigrid might have ‘ruined’ him in that regard.

There was a pace shift, Mørk slowing down a tad; then, words came out of his mouth. “I also have a girl back at Grætøh. Not a lover but a child.”

“Daughter?”

“Has been for many seasons now. She is my sister’s kid. The wyrm took her mother and father away.” His monotonic voice wavered as genuine emotions rose. “And the last attack nearly took her away from me. She almost died, and I could do nothing but see the monster’s silhouette overhead. My axes never felt more useless.

“After the attack, I contemplated my options and settled my mind: I could not protect Lilli, or any other citizen, in the open or under the fragile shell of edifice. I have to seek it, go where the creature feels safe; where open space no longer serves it.

“I left determined, vengeful, hurried. My old peers with me, and then others joined. Some mere jackals; other patriots like no other. My goal has become a duty, with the life of many under my responsibility. But unlike you, I didn’t look past.”

Footsteps resounded no more; Mørk had halted and so did Marek after noticing.

“I pressed them. Forced them to keep the pace or stay behind and return to home. I stood up as an exemplary warrior when fighting alone or along with my closest peers. But when people truly need me, I can’t keep them together, cheer them on, nor protect them. As a leader, I ain’t worth a damn.”

Marek saw Mørk’s fans bunching hard and his arms and back beginning to shudder.

It never crossed Marek’s mind that Mørk not only bore injuries in flesh; not until now. All setbacks considered, Marek’s whole journey had been blessed; he had Sigrid: his sister-in-arms, her friend, her love. The chimera he learned to be fond of was outside, cheering and crying for him, expectant of his return and eager to seek a future together.

The same could not be said of Mørk Hæssen. All who had once pledged his allegiance to him lay cold at one side of the road.

“It is so easy for one to lose his temper amid this terrible place. It happened to me, it could happen to anyone—”

“To hell with that copout,” growled Mørk. “You weren’t there. You weren’t witness to how every quarrel between them unfolded with every decision I took, how they threatened to cut each other’s legs so they wouldn’t deal with their company. Damn it, not two days passed when the party was at the verge of breaking down. We couldn’t even reach the first settlement whole!”

“...” An element within that rant clicked in Marek. “You speak of Hort,” Marek completed; the name came to him and his mouth moved on its own.

Mørk’s body winced tense before half-spinning to face Marek. “You met him?”

“I did,” nodding. “And that meetup he and I had… it was quite the event.” ‘Quite the event’ fell short in meaning. For it was Evert, and the chain of events that followed, who drove Marek to meet Sigrid. Only two weeks had passed, yet it felt so nostalgic.

“He left us after killing a stray warg. He mentioned Grætøh was in danger, threatened by a warg of legend…”

Gruhulla. The nostalgia was with its own ting of sourness; Marek could have sworn his face frowned, even if for an instant.

“I saw it,” Mørk’s eyes widened, “The warg was very real and very big, with a company of wargs and an army of wolves under its command.”

Mørk spun completely; a bit faster, and Marek would have been caught by surprise. Curiously, his eyes no longer seemed dull; they shone with emotion, even if that emotion might come out harmful to some extent.

“All this time… It has been true. But if the wargs… then Grætøh’s people—” The revelation was running wild and Mørk’s face contorted.

“Don’t worry,” Marek stretched his palm out. “We defeated the wargs. This oddity Hort bespoke is no more.”

Mørk’s eyes fell to his feet. There was an intelligible muttering, of which Marek discerned the words ‘damn’ and ‘goat.’ “It was not up to you to fight our battle.”

“They stood on our way. Besides, the beasts threatened my love. I had to do something,” a partial lie for he had not known Sigrid when he accepted to carry out the veteran’s last will.

“What of Hort? Did he go back? Did he join you?”

Marek opened his mouth, but fell close as soon as no words came. There was no use lying further, right? Why knit more twines when he had to untangle everything in the near future?

Sentences fully formed, Marek licked his lip and spoke: “Evert Hort joined us in combat. He left us stunned with a spearmanship none of us expect to preserve once we are his age, taking down many wolves during the skirmish. But when the battle heated, a warg took on him when separated and took his life. I’m sorry; may his soul march pridefully across the Silver Saloon.”

Quietness followed; suffocating and sepulchral quietness. Marek saw himself reflected on the green of the northman’s eyes, who did nothing but knit his brown closer. Seconds, heatbeats, and breath cycles transpired before Mørk’s head tilted forward, as if it had grown heavy.

“Most did not believe him. I, on the other hand, simply did not care. Sullivan gave him the reason, but my damn hurry got in the way. So anxious was I for a long-term problem that the short-term ones slipped under my nose. I failed Grætøh. Sullivan, friend of mine. I beg you for forgiveness. You trusted the wrong man.”

Marek saw with furrowed brows how Mørk nursed his regret. He saw him raise his hands and see them with pained eyes as they quivered.

“I am not that leader you bespoke. I could not save Evert from the wargs. I could not save Sven nor Pavlin from the manticores. And you, and Ulrich, and Imants, I could not save any _of you from the— the… the _what?” Mørk’s features made a drastic veer; what was guilt instant ago had now morphed into utter confusion.

“Mørk?” asked Marek.

“I couldn’t not save them from what? _They died. But… by what? By _whom?”

Noticing how Mørk was growing restless, Marek chose to intervene. “Shake it off. Don’t beat yourself further for your loss.”

“No, no. You don’t get it,” he staggered and distanced himself until his back was against an ice protrusion. One of his hands was clenching the side of his head. “I cannot remember their deaths. Whenever I try, it turns dark. And my head hurts. And then, the rings. Those rings—!”

Something went wrong. Something snapped inside Mørk and, as if undergoing a beating, he groaned and growled; now, both of his hands clutched his head, hard enough to make veins pop up.

“Mørk! What’s happening?” Marek leaned forward, preparing to prevent Mørk from harming himself. In truth, little could he archive; he could only witness how Mørk’s face contorted, teeth clenched hard, eyes pressed tight. Fortunately, the fit did not worsen; Mørk eventually found stillness, little by little steadying his breathing until he no longer groaned.

When he no longer seemed in pain, Marek inquired. “Are you feeling good?”

Mørk panted for another moment before giving a response: “Yes,” he spoke from behind the mask that was his hand, his tone neutral once more.

“Are you cer—”

“I said yes,” he asserted and his eyes snapped open, peering through the gaps of his fingers. The dead-eyed stare was as prevalent as ever.

“How imprudent of my part,” Mørk detached himself from the icy support; “bursting into groans when the enemy is so close. I nearly cost us our only advantage.” Mørk turned to the huge hole, large enough for a galley to pass through; distracted as they were, both humans missed its presence until now. “Let’s waste time no more. You are sick and the beast shalln’t leave this place.”

And thus, the conversation died there. Without any form of clarification. Just a man who bit down his pain during the rest of the toil; and possibly even after that.

_So… this is what I would have become if it weren’t for Sigrid, _came Marek’s verdict, straightforward and accurate, as he watched the northman walk away.

If everything went according to plan, how would Marek explain Sigrid’s existence to this man? He could only pray Mørk held no grudge against monsters of any kind.

But those were considerations of the future. First was the present, and that present lay ahead, past the boundary that separated shadows and dazzles.

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

“‘Herald’?” A whisper of wonder broke free from her beak. “I don—”

A fit of agony cut her short, and her form winced a step back as a gust of hoarse and wet coughs streamed to her; the horns the man formed broke apart, and his hands felt limp to his sides. The glimmer of green that enveloped the man flickered with every burst of lungs; once the man wheezed no more, the aura went stable again.

“It shames me that you find me this way… Manners are something I can’t afford…” He managed, politeness imposing to agony with outstanding success.

Sigrid’s eyes fluttered open and closed before mustering a response. “I’m no that herald you speak of.”

His head wobbled from side to side, as if the light breeze slapped him, and then heaved straight. His stare was vacant and his eyes glassy.

“How could you not? Your voice is… nymphal. What else but… Mother Glynn’s herald?”

Her head cocked to the site. Was this man raving? “I don’t know who Glynn is, and I‘m not her herald. I’m not even hooman.”

It was the hurt man’s turn to tilt his head. “You are not…” Lipped he, mouth going ajar for a moment before keeping up. “Guess I shall stay longer… But then… what are you?”

The trivialness of his question slapped Sigrid and made her head cock back.

Was he… blind? That would explain his reaction, or lack thereof, to her presence. Her inconvenient countenance had not elicited any effect whatsoever from this man.

She crouched on four and padded forward with carefulness. She feared no hostile action; her slowness stemmed from not triggering a sudden reaction from the hurt man, who clearly was not in conditions to bear surprises.

“You howled through your hands. Was it to call this herald?”

Her beak sniffed quietly. I can’t smell him. Despite the blood, I catch no scent on him.

The man was silent for another lapse; she noticed his eyes followed her approach, so his eyesight was not completely lost.

“I heard… sorrow. Sadness. A poor creature… like me… needed company.”

Ears flicked. “How do you know I was sad?”

“Ah… so it had been you,” he gasped; thus far his most energetic response. “Poor thing… Poor lady… What torments you? Who left you?”

“Poor me? Look at you: you are dying.” Sigrid had to ignore how correct his questions were; now, she was now one yard away from the man.

“Yes. I am—! Kfgh-gff.” He burst into another sequence of coughs; the man held enough dignity to point his head elsewhere and splutter blood away from his visitor. “My life stifles by… So I thought it wouldn’t be so bad having company… Cheer an unfortunate soul before I depart this world.” The corner of his mouth curled up. “Thought you an animal… But now I see you are something else… Something extraordinary.”

“I’m no animal, but ‘m not that different. Many monsters roam around, myself included. You might have drawn a predator.”

“My eyesight might be impaired... Yet I see no monster in you.”

“That’s not the point,” she hissed. “You could have been devoured.”

“What is the difference? I am dying… If my body could feed a critter in need… that, I can accept.”

This hooman. He is taking his final moments too lightly.

Something was plain: that man was not going to survive. It was such a shame — it made her heart clench. The third human who ever ‘saw’ her without exhibiting fear was unavoidably going to die within the next twinkling.

And analyzing the situation in depth, what was a human doing at the foot of the Icing Boundary? And what could have possibly dealt such an array of lethal injuries upon him? The latter question might be a challenge to her psyche, but she, in a moment of epiphany, had a clue about the former.

“Sorry if I come up as roode; the least you need is forcing your voice. But I need to ask: are you _Merk _by any means?”

“Merk?” He sank into meditation; then, a response: “Mørk Hæssen?”

Sigrid nodded. “Yes. Are you him?”

His head tilted to one side and then to the other. “Mørk… is my friend… Sullivan is my name.”

Her eyes winced wide. “It is really you,” her ears leaned back. “But… where is the rest? The dragon… did it do this to you? Is the rest… dead?”

A force clenched her throat and her stomach knotted tight. If she recalled correctly, more than a handful of humans were a few days ahead of the two. If a group of them, skilled enough to come this far, could not beat the dragon, what hope did Marek hold?

Her ears straightened in expectation of the worse, eyes glued to Sullivan’s visage. After another pained pause, his expression underwent change. For once, his face wrinkled with pang — pang divorced from the wretchedness of his body.

“Not a dragon… Rotbringer.”

“Rotbringer?” Echoed she.

“Enemy of Mother… Perversion of life.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Demon with the mask of a fair man… With eyes as gilt metal… His voice is as vinous as it is venomous… And the aura he elicited… cold… so cold… _Ah! _Kff-ghr—”

As Sullivan took an involuntary pause, Sigrid mulled his words over. As syllables flowed from his bleeding mouth, more bells rang within her mind; shy at first, the rings quickly gained volume.

Gilt is… gold pieces. Yellow. Vinous as if… wine— smooth. And the coldness he speaks of… It cannot be. I must be misunderstanding his words. My tiny head is playing me tricks—

“—Ambushed us,” the coughs ended and Sullivan went on with almost no pause in-between. “Faced the four of us… But we were no match… No match for him and his black sword—”

Her beak sucked air in so sharply that it blew a caw.

“Black sword? You said black sword?!” At that point, her talons were flexing in the air, ever so rapidly.

He nodded. “A cursed thing… We were defeated… Ulrich killed… Imants brough to unlife… And Mørk…” He pressed his eyes shut. “Oh, friend… What has become of you? Glynn shields you, Mørk… from this monster… of this Mad— _arhg— _this Mad—”

“Madakai.” Her own voice shocked her, made her shudder.

“...” His eyes quivered open; what the she-monster had said seemed to have the same impact his latest words had on her. “You… have met him before.”

It struck her like lightning, even staggering some feet back. Her furs bristled from head to tail, and her remiges at the edge of her wings ruffled up, gapping like fingers in a hand.

Their victory had been but an illusion. The ancient enemy of humankind walked among the Frostscape, back to reaping the life of others. And the bitterest of all, he had Dalavut with it.

Madakai was more powerful than ever.

“It cannot be… He survived. And… Võshla. The hoomans!”

Her head spun all the way behind, and shaken eyes focused at the South. Unchecked, Madakai was free to carry out his wickedness. Men would be killed; young ones would be drained out of their blood; and all manner of settlers, humanoid and animal alike, would be raised as monsters that think of nothing but tearing innocents apart.

“Spirits, no…” She repined, talons clutching at her chest. “What can I do? What can I do? WhatcanIdo? _He could be _everywhere!”

Not able to accompany Marek had been merely the appetizer of her forlornness. Stay to support Marek while leaving Madakai distance farther. Or depart and leave Marek behind. No results guaranteed results. Thus, she felt trapped and at the verge of whimpering.

“He is… not far.” Sigrid heard in front, and her half turned. “The undead… creeps nearby. Deep… in this very mountain.”

“How— How do you know that?” She half-snivelled out.

“Mother Glynn tells me… Her voiceless chant… alerts me of his presence.”

“Here?” Her eyes darted around as if expecting to see a hint of the vampire’s existence. “Why would he be here? Marek got rid of the sword and now he has it. Why remain here?”

Why indeed. Maybe the blazing sphere caught him unprepared and he was forced to wait until dusk returned. It was a solid hypothesis… except that there was no reason for the vampire to climb to Everwinter Blackpeak to begin with.

No reason except _vengeance. _One had been defeated badly; the other, neglected and buried under a mountain of frigidness. The ground lay fertile for resentment to sprout forth, or so Sigrid gathered. Both sought Marek’s death.

“He is here for Marc,” she announced. “They, he and the nasty thing, want revenge. It _has _to be that. I must go. I must help Marc. I must…” She tailed out as soon as she realized what she needed to do: go deep into the dragon’s lair.

This revolting scent… it permeates the air.

“I… can’t. The dragon… will detect me as soon as I enter his lair,” a quiver seized her voice. “If that happens, it will kill me. Crush me flat. And then Marc would follow… I’m detrimental… I’m_ useless!_” She fell to her knees and covered his face with her claws.

Why does it have to be like this? Why must everything go terrible?

The next twinkling teemed with canine sobs. Her head pulsed. Her heart ached. She wanted to throw up. Marek was absent and his life at risk — there was no comfort coming to her.

“... Poor thing.” Or so she thought until a hand caressed her wing. “So it was that… You fear for someone’s life. You fear for this Marc.”

She slid her hands off her mask and with drenched eyes she saw Sullivan leaning forward and reaching her out.

“He, like us, came here to kill the beast. But you couldn’t bring yourself to face the dragon.” Sigrid held the stare for a second too long before nodding slowly. “That is fine… None of us wanted to face it. All feared it deeply.”

“But you accompanied your friends. I could not; Marc went alone because I am coward.”

“Most would have left… You standing here ensuring his return proves he is not alone.” He sent forth a serious look; what he said was no admonishment but a fact he wanted Sigrid to get through. His words made known, he leaned back against the wall. “When the undead conquered us, people thought Mother Glynn a disappointment, a betrayer even… a mother who couldn’t bring herself to be concerned about her children.

“... But she fought. More than often alone. Beyond the backdrops she kept at bay entities deemed a danger for us… Kept their cold fangs from raising the beast to life… We had been deemed lower citizens at best and cattle at worst for a long time, but without her protection… things would have been far worse—!”

He exhaled another series of coughs, rougher this time. He almost lost balance, slumping and nearly falling to one side; he did not, for a scaly arm steadied him in place.

“... Thanks,” he managed. “Look… dragons have been among us since times immemorial. If they wanted us dead, we would already be dead… I won’t ask you to face it… Worry about the undead, who have no sense of depletion.”

Sigrid did not look more encouraged. “But Madakai… he cannot die. He survived when he used to be weaker.”

“Then… use this.” He slid his hand under his thigh and pulled a medallion, as shiny as Marek’s ax; it had the image of a tree emblazoned on its surface.

“Like sunlight… silver is anathema to the undead… It is also a symbol of my Goddess, Ethne Glynn… who now locks her interest in you… Consider yourself blessed, for you now count with her protection.”

Sigrid settled her hand on top of Sullivan’s and grabbed the emblem. To her wonder, the piece of metal was not cold; it felt oddly warm.

“But I know nothing of Glynn. I am no believer of her.”

“But she believes in you… and has been doing it for a while… All those who fight for her cause have their trust, even if they do so while oblivious.”

“How could you know all this?”

He paused, longer this time. Then, a smile bloomed on his face. “She told me about it.”

His comment was a lunge that caught her by surprise. She was about to ask for further elaboration, but as soon as a brand new fit of blood-filled coughs emerged; their chatter was coming to an end.

“The mist clogs my eyes… I shall go… Tell me, before I depart… What is your name?”

“Sigrid.”

“... Sigrid, eh? A beautiful name fitting of a beautiful voice.” His face beamed at her, his sight focused as if he wanted Sigrid to be the last thing he ever saw. And amid his gratified stare, a luster flickered back to the blue in his eyes.

His mouth gaped but his smile never disappeared. “You are an owl… With wolf ears…” Mouth curved and let out a smile. “Extraordinary indeed… You were Glynn’s herald… all along—” His last phrase broke into a drawn-out sigh; eyes rolled up and eyelids quivered shut.

Then, the sigh came to an end. His chest heaved no more, and only his hairs moved. The flare of emerald surrounding his outline left him, and the iron-rich scent filled her nostrils. Sullivan’s soul had left this world.

Face half sad, half confused, Sigrid stared at the corpse, mourning with silence while holding the medallion with firmness. Her quiet reverence done, Sigrid stood upright and looked up.

Of course her fears were not gone; of course she feared the wyrm more than everyone else. But Madakai — he was a walking hazard, a pestilence — he threatened Marek, Imbi, and everything with a beating heart; her animosity to the vampire and his kind superseded the fear she had for the dragon. To do nothing while the vampire got away with everything was nothing short of_ stupid._

She put the necklace around her hair and let the medal rest on the tuft, and after gaining impulse and crouching, she burst into flight, leaving a trail of snowflakes and a smiling corpse behind.