The first light of dawn had not yet touched the peaks. The mountains still wore the night like a cloak, and the Sanctuary's halls were hushed with the breath of sleepers.
Caelum was one of them—curled beneath the blanket, his body heavy with exhaustion, his dreams fractured by half‑remembered stars.
The door banged open.
"Up!" Eric's voice cut through the silence like a blade. The scarred monk stood framed in the doorway, his breath steaming in the cold. "Wake up, boy. It's time to train."
Caelum groaned, dragging himself upright. His limbs felt like stone, his head thick with sleep. "The sun hasn't even risen," he muttered, rubbing his eyes.
Eric's answer was a sharp laugh. "The sun doesn't wait for you. Neither will the world."
Dragged from his bed, Caelum stumbled after him, still half asleep, his bare feet protesting against the chill of the stone floor. The air bit at his skin, sharper than any blade.
They reached the stables. The scent of hay and frost mingled with the musk of horses stamping against the cold. Eric thrust a pair of weighted bags into Caelum's arms.
"Prepare the horse," Eric ordered.
Caelum blinked, confused. "A horse? How am I supposed to get up there with these?" He shifted the bags awkwardly, their weight dragging at his shoulders.
Eric's scarred mouth curved into a smile that was more challenge than kindness. "The horse is for me. You, on the other hand, have just earned the pleasure of exploring Coldspire on foot."
Caelum stared at him, incredulous. "On foot? With these weights? In this cold?"
Eric adjusted the reins with calm precision. "Yes. You'll carry them. You'll stumble. You'll curse me. And then you'll learn. Strength isn't given, Caelum—it's carved out of your bones, one step at a time."
Caelum's breath fogged in the air. He wanted to argue, but the monk's eyes held no room for debate. He pulled the straps tight across his shoulders, the weight biting into him.
"Why me?" Caelum asked suddenly, his voice low. "Why push me like this? I don't even know who I am."
Eric swung into the saddle, his movements practiced and sure. He looked down at Caelum, his expression unreadable. "Because the world doesn't care who you were. It only cares who you become. You want strength? Then earn it. You want answers? Then survive long enough to find them."
Caelum clenched his jaw, the cold already gnawing at his skin. "And if I fail?"
Eric's smile was thin, almost cruel. "Then you'll fail loudly enough for the mountain to remember your name. But if you endure… you'll carve yourself into something the world cannot ignore."
The stable doors creaked open, and the mountain air rushed in, raw and merciless. Eric nudged his horse forward, the hooves striking frost.
Caelum's breath fogged in the air. He wanted to argue, but the monk's eyes held no room for debate. He pulled the straps tight across his shoulders, the weight biting into him.
Eric mounted the horse with practiced ease. "Coldspire will teach you more than I ever could. The wind will strip away your excuses. The climb will show you what you're made of. And when you think you can't take another step—take it anyway."
Caelum swallowed hard, his throat dry. The stable doors creaked open, and the mountain air rushed in, raw and merciless. He stepped out, the weighted bags dragging him down, the cold biting into his lungs.
The path ahead was steep, veined with frost and shadow. His legs trembled already, but he forced them forward.
Behind him, Eric's voice carried on the wind. "Remember this, boy. Power is not a gift. It is a debt. And you will pay it in sweat, in scars, in silence. Only then will it belong to you."
With that, Eric rode off into the pale light, leaving Caelum standing alone, the weighted bags dragging him down, the cold biting into his lungs.
Caelum lowered his head against the gale, each breath a battle. The mountain loomed above him, vast and indifferent. His body screamed, but he kept moving.
Step by step, he began the climb.
With each step, with each ragged breath, Caelum felt something strip away—his warmth, his comfort, his weakness. The cold gnawed at him like teeth, and the weighted bags dragged at his shoulders until his bones ached. He muttered through chattering teeth, "I'm going to get him for this… Eric will pay for dragging me out here."
The snow was deep, swallowing his boots, and his breath came shallow, each inhale burning his lungs. The mountains were merciless, filled with hidden traps and prowling monsters. Any step could be his last.
By the time he reached halfway up the ridge, the sun had finally clawed its way over the horizon. He stopped, chest heaving, and turned to look back. The sight caught him off guard.
Below lay the village of Bellowood, roofs dusted in white, smoke curling from chimneys like threads of warmth against the frozen air. Far beyond it, the Sanctuary stood proud, its bells ringing faintly across the distance. The sound carried memories—his bed, the food Sister Miriam prepared with her gentle hands, the hymns of the monks, the laughter of children chasing each other in the courtyards.
For a moment, he longed to turn back. To sink into that warmth. To forget the climb.
But Eric's words echoed in his mind: Strength isn't given. It's carved out of your bones, one step at a time.
Caelum sat heavily on a rock, fumbling through the pack Eric had left him. His fingers closed around a small pouch, the stench sharp enough to make him gag. A rune message was scrawled across the leather: This pouch is filled with Fangroot.
"Fangroot?" Caelum whispered. His brow furrowed. "Isn't this what hunters use to bait monsters… or trap them?"
He remembered Miriam's voice during study lessons, warning him of its danger. Never touch Fangroot without care. It draws beasts like blood draws flies.
His stomach tightened. "Why would Eric give me this? Is this… part of the training?"
The thought unsettled him. Was Eric testing his wits as well as his endurance? Was this meant to teach him survival, not just strength?
Before he could puzzle it out further, a low growl rolled across the snow.
Caelum froze.
From the shadows of the ridge, a Frostmaw Wolf emerged—its fur white as the snow, its eyes glinting like shards of ice. Its breath steamed in the air, each exhale a plume of frost. The beast's fangs dripped with cold mist, and its paws sank silently into the snow as it circled him.
Caelum's heart hammered. He clutched the pouch tighter, realizing too late what Eric had done. The Fangroot wasn't a gift. It was bait.
The wolf growled again, deeper this time, its voice vibrating through the mountain air.
Caelum muttered under his breath, "Of course. He wants me to suffer. He wants me to fight for every step."
The cold bit harder, the weight of the bags dragging him down, but he forced himself to stand. His legs trembled, his breath shallow, but he raised his chin.
"Strength isn't given," he whispered, repeating Eric's words. "It's earned."
The Frostmaw Wolf lunged.
The cold bit into Caelum's lungs with every breath, sharp as broken glass. His arms trembled as he drew the twin swords from his waist, their weight familiar yet heavy against the burden of the training bags strapped to his back.
The Frostmaw Wolf lunged, a blur of white fur and fangs. Instinct screamed louder than thought—Caelum twisted aside, boots skidding in the snow. The beast's claws raked the air where his chest had been. He staggered, breath ragged, but managed to keep his footing.
"This is just the beginning," he muttered to himself, voice hoarse. "Eric… you'll pay for this."
The wolf circled, growling low, its breath steaming in the frozen air. Caelum tightened his grip on the hilts, the cold biting into his knuckles. He swung as the beast lunged again, steel flashing. The pale blade cut across its flank, a shallow wound that bled frost instead of blood. The wolf yelped, but its eyes burned brighter, hungrier.
Before Caelum could steady himself, another shape burst from the snowdrifts—a second Frostmaw Wolf, larger, its claws gleaming like shards of ice. He barely had time to raise his blade.
The strike came fast. He tried to dodge, but his body was still weak, still recovering from the bed he had left only a week ago. The claws tore across his shoulder. Pain flared hot, blood dripping into the snow.
Caelum staggered, his vision swimming. The cold pressed harder, whispering surrender. But he clenched his teeth, refusing to fall.
"Not here," he growled. "Not now."
The wolves circled, their growls echoing off the mountain walls. His breath came shallow, each inhale a battle. He forced himself to stand straighter, ignoring the blood soaking his sleeve.
At a glance, his eyes caught something—a hunter's trap half‑buried in the snow, its iron jaws glinting faintly. He remembered Miriam's lessons, her voice warning him about Fangroot and the snares hunters used to bait beasts.
Eric left me that pouch for a reason, he realized. This was never about killing them outright. It's about surviving. About thinking.
He loosened the pouch at his belt, the stench of Fangroot sharp enough to sting his nose. The wolves snarled, their eyes snapping toward it.
"Come on," Caelum whispered, voice shaking. "You want it? Then take it."
He staggered back, feigning weakness, letting the scent draw them closer. The larger wolf lunged, its hunger blinding it. Caelum sidestepped, every muscle screaming, and with a final shove of his weighted shoulder, he drove the beast into the waiting trap.
The iron jaws snapped shut with a sound like thunder. The wolf howled, thrashing, but the trap held firm.
Caelum collapsed to one knee, his breath ragged, blood dripping into the snow. The smaller wolf backed away, snarling, before vanishing into the drifts.
He sat there, trembling, the cold gnawing at his bones. His shoulder burned, his lungs ached, but he was alive.
"This… this is what he meant," Caelum whispered, staring at the trap. "Strength isn't given. It's earned. Step by step. Scar by scar."
The wind howled across Coldspire, carrying the faint toll of the Sanctuary's bell. He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining Miriam's voice, the warmth of the hearth, the laughter of children. Then he forced himself to rise, bloodied but unbroken.
The mountain had stripped him bare, but it had not taken him.
And that was enough—for now.
Caelum pressed his palm against the wound in his shoulder, the blood sticky and half‑frozen against the fabric. Each movement sent a sharp lance of pain down his arm, but he gritted his teeth and tore a strip from his cloak, binding it tight. The cloth darkened quickly, but it held.
He sheathed his swords, their weight dragging at his waist, and adjusted the training bags strapped across his back. The straps bit into his flesh, grinding against the wound, but he forced himself upright.
"This mountain won't break me," he muttered, voice hoarse, breath steaming in the cold. "Not yet."
The climb resumed.
Every step was agony. His boots slipped on ice, his fingers numbed against stone, and the weighted bag pulled him backward with every lurch. His shoulder throbbed, each heartbeat a reminder of weakness. He dug his fingers into the rock, nails splitting, and dragged himself upward.
Hours passed. The sun crawled across the sky, indifferent to his struggle. His breath grew shallow, his vision blurred, but he kept climbing.
Then his foot slipped.
The cliff face tore at his hands as he scrambled, the weight of the bag dragging him down. His shoulder screamed, blood soaking through the bandage. For a heartbeat, he dangled over the abyss, the world spinning beneath him.
"Not like this," he hissed, forcing his body to move. He slammed his sword into a crack in the stone, the steel biting deep, and used it as leverage. With a final heave, he pulled himself back onto the ledge, chest heaving, sweat freezing against his skin.
He lay there for a moment, staring at the sky, the thirty signs faintly burning beyond the clouds. His body wanted to quit. His mind whispered surrender. But he rose again.
Step by step, scar by scar, he conquered the mountain.
When he finally reached the summit, the sight stopped him cold.
A tent stood against the wind, its canvas taut, smoke curling from a small brazier. Eric sat beside it, calm as stone, a steaming cup of tea in his hand.
"Took you long enough," Eric said, his voice carrying easily across the snow. His scarred mouth curved into something between a smile and a challenge. "Did you enjoy my gift?"
Caelum's face twisted in annoyance, but he forced his composure, standing tall despite the blood on his sleeve and the tremor in his legs. "It was a child's play," he said, his tone clipped.
Eric raised a brow, sipping his tea. "Is that so?"
Caelum met his gaze, refusing to look away. "You think a few wolves and a cliff will break me? I've already been broken once. I won't let it happen again."
For a moment, silence stretched between them, filled only by the wind. Then Eric smirked, pride flickering in his eyes. I knew you would make it, he thought. You are something else.
"Come," Eric said aloud, gesturing to the tent. "Sit down. Have tea. Let me see that wound of yours before you bleed yourself dry."
Caelum hesitated, then lowered himself onto the snow, exhaustion finally catching up to him. The warmth of the brazier brushed his face, a cruel reminder of the comfort he had been denied all day.
Eric poured another cup, sliding it across. "Strength isn't forged in comfort, boy. It's carved in places like this—where the cold bites, where the blood flows, where you think you can't take another step and then you do."
Caelum took the cup, his hands trembling. He drank, the heat burning down his throat, chasing the frost from his bones.
"You'll hate me for this," Eric continued, his tone steady. "But one day, you'll thank me. Because when the world comes for you, it won't care how tired you are. It won't care how much you've bled. It will only care if you can stand."
Caelum set the cup down, his jaw tight. "Then I'll stand," he said quietly. "Even if it kills me."
Eric's smirk softened into something rare—almost approval. "That's the spirit," he said. "Now, let me see that shoulder. You've earned the right to rest… for tonight."