Echoing to the north of Ralstrog, drums began before dawn.
Their deep, rhythmic pulse rolled across the snow-covered peaks of the Felmor Mountains, scattering flurries from the pines and rousing the Dalarii camp long before the sun crested the eastern ridge.
Children were the first to answer the call.
Wrapped in thick furs much too large for their small frames, they raced through the village, laughing as they slid across the packed snow toward the fighting pit carved into the mountainside. Behind them came hunters, smiths, and elders, each carrying cups of steaming broth or fresh mead despite the early hour.
No one wished to miss the Winter Games.
It was the final day before the long snows sealed the mountain passes, a day set aside not for hunting or survival, but for proving one's strength before the clan and the All Mother herself. At the edge of the pit, wagers had already begun.
"I'll put two wolf pelts on Hargan lasting longer than last year."
The old hunter beside him barked a laugh.
"You'll lose both. The fool's got courage enough to challenge the Wolf King, but not enough sense to know when he's beaten."
"The Wolf King?"
A boy no older than twelve looked up from where he sat sharpening a wooden practice axe.
"You've never seen him fight?" the old hunter asked. The boy shook his head.
"I was too young."
The hunter grinned through his gray beard.
"Then today you'll understand why no one has taken the throne in fourteen winters."
A roar erupted from the crowd. The boy turned toward the opposite side of the arena. A broad-shouldered man emerged between two rows of cheering clansmen. His cloak was stitched from white wolf pelts, the fur brushing against the frozen earth with every step. Across his back rested a pair of black axes unlike any weapon the boy had ever seen. Even from a distance they seemed to swallow the morning light. The cheering only grew louder.
"Lothær!"
"Lothær!"
"Lothær!"
The chieftain answered with a wave and a broad smile before climbing over the stone lip of the pit. He raised both hands for silence.
"Brothers!" he called.
"I trust at least one of you remembered how to fight since last winter."
The arena erupted in laughter. One warrior cupped his hands around his mouth.
"We remembered!"
Another shouted,
"You've just gotten slower!"
Lothær laughed louder than anyone.
"Good."
He reached over his shoulder and unclasped the twin axes from his back. A hush settled over the crowd. For a moment, every eye followed the black blades. Then, without ceremony, Lothær laid them carefully against the arena wall.
"If I use these," he said, picking up a thick oak training club instead, "you'll all spend the feast complaining that I cheated."
More laughter.
"So today..."
He spun the club once in his hand.
"...I'll give you a chance."
A chorus of jeers answered him.
"Listen to him!"
"The old wolf's already making excuses!"
Lothær pointed the club toward the loudest voice.
"You'll be the first one I throw into the snow."
The warrior laughed so hard he nearly spilled his drink.
An elder climbed onto the rim of the pit, leaning heavily on a carved walking staff. The laughter slowly died away as he raised a weathered hand.
"Enough."
The word carried effortlessly over the crowd. He looked around the arena, taking in every warrior standing within the circle.
"This day is not one of anger."
His gaze settled on the youngest among them.
"It is not a day for grudges."
Then to the oldest.
"It is a day to remind ourselves that strength is earned."
He struck the butt of his staff against the stone.
"And strength without honor is worth less than ash."
The gathered warriors answered with a single fist over their hearts.
"Honor before victory."
The elder nodded once.
"So it has always been."
He stepped aside.
The great drums began again.
Boom.
...
Boom.
...
Boom.
Each beat slower than the last. The warriors spread out across the pit. Some bounced lightly on their feet. Others rolled their shoulders or adjusted their grips. No one rushed. This was ritual. Not chaos. Lothær closed his eyes for a moment. The mountain air filled his lungs. When he opened them again, he smiled. Across the pit, Bulrah twirled his axe lazily over one shoulder.
"You're smiling."
"Shouldn't I be?"
"You only smile like that when someone is about to embarrass themselves."
Lothær chuckled.
"I was thinking the same thing."
Bulrah laughed.
"We'll see."
The final drumbeat thundered through the valley. Fire burst from the braziers surrounding the pit. The Winter Games had begun.
For a heartbeat...
No one moved. Then the silence exploded into motion. Two warriors collided in the center with enough force to send snow spraying into the air. Another ducked beneath a hammer swing and answered with a shoulder that sent his opponent sprawling. Lothær remained where he stood.
Watching.
Waiting.
One eager young warrior spotted him and roared.
"For the throne!"
He charged. Lothær sighed dramatically.
"So impatient."
The young warrior swung with everything he had. Lothær stepped aside. The club tapped the back of the man's knees. His feet vanished from beneath him. A heartbeat later he landed flat on his back with a grunt. The crowd erupted into laughter. Lothær leaned over him.
"First lesson."
He offered the young man his hand.
"Don't announce your attack."
The warrior accepted it with a sheepish grin.
"I'll remember that."
"I hope so."
Lothær shoved him playfully toward the edge of the pit.
"Otherwise next year will be just as short."
The young warrior laughed as he limped away. Across the arena, Bulrah watched the exchange with folded arms.
"Still teaching during the Games?"
Lothær shrugged.
"Someone has to."
Bulrah smiled.
"I suppose I'll have to beat the lessons out of you myself."
Lothær pointed his club toward his brother.
"I've been waiting all year."
Bulrah grinned.
"I hope you stretched."
Lothær laughed.
"I have fourteen winters of practice."
"Then this'll hurt even more."
Before either brother could move, another warrior barreled between them with a roar.
"For the throne!"
He swung a heavy wooden maul toward Lothær's ribs. Lothær caught the haft with one hand. The momentum carried the larger warrior clean off his feet.
"You'll have to do better than that."
With a twist of his wrist, Lothær sent him tumbling harmlessly into the snow piled against the edge of the pit. The crowd burst into laughter.
"You call that a challenge?" someone shouted.
The warrior climbed to his feet, grinning despite himself.
"I slipped!"
"You've said that every year!"
While the laughter continued, Bulrah had disappeared. Lothær's smile widened.
"There you are..."
A shadow crossed above him. He looked up just as Bulrah leapt from a boulder overlooking the pit, driving both feet toward his brother's shoulders. Lothær barely had time to move. The impact sent both men crashing into the frozen earth. The crowd erupted.
"Now that's a challenge!"
Bulrah rolled away first, already laughing.
"You were getting comfortable."
Lothær brushed snow from his beard.
"I was getting bored."
Around them, the remaining warriors paused. Not because the Games were over. Because everyone knew what came next. One by one, they stepped back. The ring widened. No one spoke. Even the drums fell silent. The brothers rose together. Bulrah tossed his training axe aside. It landed upright in the snow. Lothær glanced at the discarded weapon.
"Giving up already?"
"I don't need it."
Bulrah cracked his knuckles.
"I've wanted this fight since last winter."
Lothær planted his club into the frozen ground. The thick wood stood upright for only a moment before he let go. It toppled into the snow.
"I suppose fists are fairer."
Bulrah laughed.
"There he is."
The elder who had begun the Games stepped forward just enough to address the crowd.
"Witness."
The clan answered as one.
"Witness."
"Strength."
"Strength."
"Honor."
"Honor."
The elder raised his staff.
"Begin."
For a heartbeat, neither brother moved. Snow drifted lazily between them. Bulrah broke the silence first.
"You know..."
He smiled.
"...I'm going to miss calling you Chieftain."
Lothær smiled back.
"Then don't lose."
Bulrah exploded forward. Snow burst beneath his boots. He crossed the distance between them in the blink of an eye. His fist drove toward Lothær's jaw.
Lothær caught it.
The impact echoed through the pit. For a moment, neither man moved. Muscles strained. The frozen ground beneath their feet cracked. Bulrah grinned.
"There you are."
Lothær smiled back.
"I was wondering when you'd wake up."
Bulrah twisted free and drove an elbow toward Lothær's ribs. Lothær turned with it, taking the blow on his shoulder before answering with one of his own. The strike caught Bulrah square in the chest. Instead of retreating… Bulrah laughed.
"Better."
He lunged again. The brothers traded blows faster now, each finding openings only the other could see. To the untrained eye it looked like chaos. To the Dalarii… It was a conversation.
One strike.
A counter.
A feint.
A smile.
A shove.
Another smile.
Neither sought to injure. Each tested the other. Around the pit the clan stood in complete silence. Even the children had stopped cheering. An elder leaned toward the young boy from earlier.
"Watch their feet."
The boy frowned.
"They aren't moving."
"They're always moving."
The old hunter smiled.
"You just can't see it yet."
Another clash rang through the valley. Bulrah ducked beneath Lothær's arm and wrapped both arms around his waist.
"Got you."
"So you think."
With a roar, Bulrah lifted. For the first time all morning… Lothær left the ground. The crowd gasped. Bulrah drove him into the frozen earth hard enough to send a plume of snow high into the air. The pit erupted. Bulrah stood over his brother, breathing hard.
"I've been waiting years to do that."
Lothær lay perfectly still. The crowd watched.
One heartbeat.
Two.
Three.
Then a laugh echoed from the crater.
Deep.
Warm.
Unmistakable.
Lothær sat up, brushing snow from his pelts.
"I'll admit..."
He looked at the broken ground around him.
"...that was a good one."
Bulrah offered a hand. Lothær ignored it. Instead he stood on his own.
"I suppose it's my turn."
Lothær rolled his shoulders and settled into a relaxed stance. His breathing hadn't quickened. Bulrah frowned.
"I hate when you smile."
"You only hate it because you know what comes next."
"I know you're about to underestimate me."
"I never underestimate you."
The words were calm. Matter-of-fact.
"I taught you."
Bulrah rushed him again. This time there was no roar. No flourish. Just speed. He feinted high before driving low, aiming to sweep Lothær's legs from beneath him. Lothær didn't move. At the last possible moment, he shifted his weight. Bulrah's sweep missed by inches. The younger brother was already recovering, twisting into a rising elbow. Lothær blocked it. A knee followed. Blocked. A hook. Blocked. The exchange lasted only seconds. Yet each strike came faster than the last. The crowd struggled to follow. "They're reading each other," the old hunter murmured. "No." The elder beside him smiled.
"They're remembering."
Bulrah changed rhythm. Left. Right. Low. High. Exactly as Lothær had taught him years ago. Lothær answered each attack before it came. Not because he was faster. Because he'd seen this style a thousand times. Finally Bulrah broke away. His chest rose and fell. A grin spread across his face.
"You knew."
"I always know."
"You let me think I'd surprise you."
Lothær shrugged.
"I wanted to see if you'd grown."
"And?"
"You have."
Bulrah laughed.
"...Damn."
The crowd laughed with him. For just a moment… The fight disappeared. They were simply brothers again. Then Bulrah lowered his shoulders.
"One more."
Lothær nodded.
"One more."
They charged together. Neither gave ground. Their shoulders collided with a crack that echoed across the valley. Snow exploded around them. Bulrah managed to drive Lothær backward. One step. Then another. The crowd roared.
"He's moving him!"
Lothær planted one foot. The retreat stopped. Bulrah pushed harder. Veins stood out along his neck. Every muscle strained. Lothær looked into his brother's eyes.
"I am proud of how strong you have become, brother."
Bulrah blinked.
"What?"
"You've finally become strong enough..."
Lothær shifted his hips.
"...to make me use this."
With a sudden twist born from years of experience rather than raw strength, Lothær redirected Bulrah's momentum. The younger warrior stumbled forward. Lothær slipped behind him. One arm locked around Bulrah's chest. The other caught his wrist. Bulrah froze. He knew the hold. Lothær had taught him that one too.
"...You're cheating."
Lothær chuckled.
"It's only cheating when you don't learn from your teacher."
Bulrah struggled once. Twice. Then sighed.
"I yield."
Silence hung over the arena. Then…
The elder struck his staff against the stone.
"The Chieftain remains!"
The valley erupted. Warriors pounded fists against shields. Children shouted. A horn blew in the distance. Lothær immediately released his brother. Before Bulrah could stand on his own, Lothær offered him a hand. This time… Bulrah took it. The brothers pulled each other into a fierce embrace.
"You almost had me."
Bulrah laughed into his shoulder.
"I know."
"And next year?"
Lothær smiled.
"...Next year you might."