There are stories told in Nevareth's oldest taverns, whispered by hunters who've survived encounters with the mountain's true masters, about creatures that predate the empire itself.
The Glacier Elk is one such legend, a beast so massive, so ancient, so impossibly dangerous that only fools and the suicidal actively seek it out.
Emperor Soren Nivarre, it seemed, was both.
He'd been tracking the creature for hours, following signs that most hunters wouldn't recognize and fewer still would dare pursue. A depression in snow too large to be anything smaller than catastrophic.
Trees stripped of bark at heights that suggested something with the reach of a siege engine. Frozen ground cracked under weight that physics shouldn't allow, bearing the distinctive pattern of cloven hooves each the size of a man's torso.
