As night fell, Caelum lay awake in the tent, listening to the wind claw at the canvas. He touched the bandage on his shoulder, feeling the throb of pain beneath it. His breath came shallow, but his eyes burned with stubbornness.
"This is only the beginning," he whispered to himself.
He thought of the climb, of the wolves, of the blood he had left in the snow. He had passed the first test, but fate was not finished with him. Closing his eyes, he dreamt of a world that was not the one he walked—a world of warmth, laughter, and peace.
But the Sanctuary below did not dream. It prepared.
In the great hall, torches sputtered against the drafts, their flames bending like weary sentinels. A circle of hunters gathered beneath the call of Priestess Elira. Her silver‑braided hair caught the firelight, her eyes sharp despite the fatigue etched into her face.
Seris Nighttrail, the tracker, stepped forward. Snow still clung to her cloak, her boots worn from days in the wild. Her voice carried the rasp of someone who had seen too much.
"As you requested, Priestess, we followed the goblins' trail. Their movement leads to Frostmaw Hollow, south of the village. And as we feared… Pinefall in the south, Stillfen in the north, and Bitterfen in the west have all fallen."
The words struck the hall like a hammer. Silence followed, broken only by the hiss of the torches.
Elira's voice was low, but steady. "It is just as I feared. And the bodies?"
Garrick, another hunter, shifted uneasily. His hands clenched at his sides. "We found them. But… all male. Not even the children were spared. The monsters took the women as prisoners. For what purpose, I dare not say." His voice cracked, and he looked away, as if ashamed to speak the truth aloud.
A murmur rippled through the hunters. Rhyven, broad‑shouldered and scarred, slammed his fist against the table. "They're building an army. It won't be long before they march here."
Seris shook her head, her voice grim. "It's going to take a year. The last winter lasted almost a year, and this one will be longer—I can feel it in the wind, in the way the cold clings to the bones of the land. The goblins know this too. They thrive in hunger and dark. Every village they burn, every prisoner they take, it feeds their strength. And with the long winter upon us, they will march when we are weakest."
Elira's gaze sharpened. "You're certain?"
Seris nodded, jaw tight. "I've seen their movements. They're not raiding blindly anymore. They're organized, deliberate. Frostmaw Hollow is only the beginning. If Pinefall, Stillfen, and Bitterfen have already fallen, then the Sanctuary is next on their path."
Rhyven growled, gripping the hilt of his blade. "Then let them come. I'll meet them blade for blade."
Seris turned to him, her tone sharp but not unkind. "Bravery is not enough, Rhyven. I've seen men braver than you cut down in the snow, their courage feeding nothing but the crows. We need more than steel—we need foresight, and we need to act before the march begins."
Garrick's voice was low, haunted. "She's right. The bodies we found… they weren't just victims. They were warnings. The goblins left them to break us before the battle even starts."
Elira's voice cut through the rising tension, trembling but firm. "Bravery alone won't save us. We are outnumbered. Every village they take swells their ranks. We need strategy, not just steel."
The hall fell quiet again, the weight of her words pressing down on every heart.
Finally, Elira straightened, her voice carrying the authority of someone who bore the burden of lives. "This is no ordinary raid. The goblins are not acting alone. Something drives them, something greater than hunger or cruelty. We must uncover it, or we will be fighting shadows we cannot kill."
The hunters exchanged uneasy glances. Garrick's shoulders sagged, his voice barely above a whisper. "Priestess… if they march here, the Sanctuary will burn."
Elira's eyes hardened. "Then we will not wait for them to come knocking at our gates. Tomorrow, we send scouts to Frostmaw Hollow. We will learn what stirs in the dark. And we will be ready."
The bell tolled outside, low and mournful, its sound carrying across the snow. Each hunter felt the weight of it in their bones—the warning of an enemy that grew stronger with every passing night.
And far above, on the frozen peak, Caelum dreamed of a world without blood or chains, unaware that fate was already weaving him into the war to come.
The next morning, the Sanctuary stirred with purpose. The hunters gathered in the courtyard, cloaks pulled tight against the biting wind, steel glinting faintly in the pale light. Horses stamped and snorted, their breath steaming in the cold.
Elira stood at the steps, her robe heavy with frost, her voice carrying over the bustle.
"Be careful," she warned, her tone firm but edged with worry. "We are facing an enemy who grows smarter and more powerful with every attack. Do not strike them head‑on. You are there to observe, to learn. Recklessness will cost lives."
Seris Nighttrail adjusted the strap of her bow, her eyes steady. "Don't worry, Priestess. We'll make sure to find the ones responsible for this. Their trail won't stay hidden from me."
Rhyven, broad‑shouldered and restless, tightened the grip on his sword. "And I will lead them. I'll watch over the hunt and protect them. No goblin will lay a hand on us while I draw breath."
Garrick snorted, his voice sharp. "Lead them? Who made you captain, Rhyven? You think swinging that blade makes you fit to command?"
Rhyven turned, his jaw tight, eyes flashing. "Better me than you, Garrick. At least I don't tremble every time the wind howls."
Garrick stepped closer, his hand brushing the hilt of his dagger. "Tremble? I've seen more winters than you've seen battles. Don't mistake caution for fear."
The tension thickened, voices rising, until Seris cut between them with a sharp gesture. "Enough. We don't have time for this. Argue later, if we live to see later."
The two men glared at each other but fell silent, their breath steaming in the cold.
Seris then approached Elira, lowering her voice so only the priestess could hear. "Priestess… can you reach our friends in the south of Bellowood? If they send aid, we might stand a chance."
Elira's expression softened, though her eyes remained troubled. "I have already sent word. But so far, there has been no reply. It is winter—the passes are blocked, the rivers frozen. Messages may not reach them."
Seris frowned, her voice urgent. "We need their support. Without reinforcements, the Sanctuary will be alone when the goblins march. Please, make it happen."
Elira placed a hand on her arm, steadying her. "I will try again. But understand, Seris—the cold swallows more than roads. It swallows voices, too. Sometimes prayers take longer to be heard."
Seris nodded reluctantly, her jaw tight. "Then I'll trust you to keep trying. Because if we stand alone, this winter will bury us all."
Elira's gaze swept over the hunters, her voice rising once more. "Go now. Ride with caution. Bring back knowledge, not glory. The Sanctuary depends on you."
The hunters mounted their horses, the sound of hooves striking frost echoing through the courtyard. Rhyven muttered under his breath, "Knowledge won't stop a blade." Garrick shot him a look but said nothing.
Seris pulled her hood low, her bow resting across her lap. "We'll find them," she said quietly, more to herself than anyone else. "And when we do, we'll know what darkness drives them."
With that, the hunters rode off into the frozen morning, their figures swallowed by the white horizon. Elira watched them until they vanished, the wind tugging at her robe.
"May the weave guide them," she whispered. But her heart was heavy, for she knew the weave was fraying, and the world was changing faster than prayers could mend.
Meanwhile, on the road to Eldwyn'Myr, one of the scouts reined in his horse. Snow crusted the body of a young monk, frozen stiff, his hands locked around a parchment.
"It must be one of the monks from the Sanctuary," the scout whispered, dismounting.
Another leaned closer, his breath steaming. "Yes… look, he's holding something."
The captain knelt, prying the parchment from the monk's stiff fingers. "Poor soul," he muttered. "Still clinging to duty even in death." He unrolled the letter, eyes narrowing as he read.
"This is for the Master. And it is urgent." He rose, his voice sharp. "Prepare to return to the School. We ride at once."
Far above, Caelum's world was nothing but stone, snow, and pain.
Eric was not kind.
"Climb," the monk ordered, his voice as cold as the wind. "Climb until your arms fail. Then climb again."
Caelum's fingers bled against the rock, his shoulder throbbed from old wounds, and the weighted bag dragged him down like an anchor. He slipped, cursed, and hauled himself back up, sweat freezing against his skin.
When he faltered, Eric's shadow loomed. "Push‑ups. Now."
Caelum groaned, collapsing into the snow. "For what? I didn't even say anything!"
Eric smirked, folding his arms. "For thinking you could rest. Or maybe just to amuse me. Either way, down."
Caelum spat blood into the snow, but obeyed. His arms trembled, his breath ragged. "You're enjoying this," he muttered between gasps.
Eric crouched beside him, his scarred face unreadable. "Of course, I am. Watching you suffer means watching you grow. Every drop of sweat, every bruise, every scar—it's proof you're still alive."
Caelum collapsed after the count, chest heaving. "Alive? Barely."
Eric's voice hardened. "Barely is enough. Barely means you fought. Barely means you endured. The dead don't complain, Caelum. Only the living does."
The days blurred together.
They trained until the sun rose and the sun set, until Caelum's body screamed for mercy. He ran through snowdrifts with the weighted bag biting into his shoulders. He climbed cliffs until his nails split. He swung his blades until his arms shook, and when he faltered, Eric's voice cut through the haze.
"Again."
Caelum cursed him, hated him, but obeyed. And with each passing day, the complaints grew fewer. The sickness in his stomach faded. His body hardened, his breath steadied.
One evening, Eric tossed him a bow and a quiver. "Hunt," he commanded.
Caelum frowned, exhausted. "Hunt what? There's nothing out here but snow and rocks."
Eric's eyes glinted. "Nature always provides. But take only what it gives. Nothing more. To take more is greed. To take less is weakness. Learn the balance."
Caelum trudged into the woods, his breath fogging. Hours passed before he returned with a single hare, his hands trembling from the cold.
Eric nodded once. "Good. You didn't waste arrows. You didn't kill for sport. You killed to live. That is the lesson."
Caelum dropped the hare, his voice hoarse. "And the lesson in bleeding fingers? In frozen lungs? In carrying this cursed bag until my bones crack?"
Eric's smirk was thin, almost cruel. "That lesson is simple. Pain is the path. Blood is the ink. Sweat is the parchment. And strength… strength is the story you write with them."
Caelum stared at him, his chest heaving, his body broken but unbowed. Slowly, he nodded.
"I'll write it," he whispered. "Even if it kills me."
Eric's eyes softened for the briefest moment, pride flickering beneath the scars. "Then you're ready for tomorrow."
The hunters pressed deeper into the wilds, following the goblin trails. With each passing day the tracks grew fresher—broken branches, claw marks gouged into trees, the stench of smoke drifting on the wind. Twice they clashed with goblin scouts, wiry creatures with jagged blades and cruel eyes. Each fight was quick, bloody, and silent.
They stopped only when the horses demanded rest, sleeping in shifts beneath the frozen stars. For two weeks they rode, the cold gnawing at their bones, until at last the trail led them to Frostmaw Hollow.
But it was no longer a hollow.
The hunters reined in their mounts, staring at the sight before them. What had once been a cave was now a fortress. Crude walls of timber and stone rose high, outposts bristled with jagged spikes, and sentries paced along makeshift battlements. Torches burned at every corner, their flames casting grotesque shadows across the snow.
From within came the cries—the agonies of prisoners. Women's voices, pleading, broken. The sound carried across the wind, chilling the hunters more than the frost ever could.
Garrick spat into the snow, his jaw tight. "We should move closer. Get a better look."
Rhyven shook his head sharply, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "Not with those sentries you don't. They'll spot us before we take ten steps. You want your throat slit in your sleep?"
Seris narrowed her eyes, scanning the walls. "He's right. Look at them—organized, disciplined. This isn't a rabble anymore. They've built something meant to last."
Garrick's fists clenched. "So we sit here and watch? While they torture and kill?"
Rhyven growled, his voice low. "Better to wait than die like fools. Charging head‑on would be suicide."
Seris cut between them, her tone sharp but calm. "Enough. We need eyes, not blades. If we move at night, we can slip closer, count their numbers, learn their defenses. Then we'll know what we're facing."
Garrick muttered, frustration thick in his voice. "Every scream we hear is another soul lost. Waiting feels like cowardice."
Rhyven leaned toward him, his scarred face hard. "And rushing in would make us corpses. You want to save them? Then live long enough to fight."
Seris's gaze stayed fixed on the fortress. "Listen to them. The cries aren't just pain—they're warnings. The goblins are breaking them, turning their suffering into strength. If we misstep, the Sanctuary will be next."
The three fell silent, the cries echoing across the snow. Each man and woman felt the weight of it—the helplessness, the rage, the fear.
Finally, Rhyven exhaled, his breath steaming in the cold. "Fine. We move at night. But mark my words, when the time comes, I'll be the first through those gates."
Garrick shook his head, muttering, "And the first to die, no doubt."
Seris ignored them, her eyes never leaving the fortress. "This is war now. And if we don't act wisely, the Sanctuary will burn next."
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the fortress of Frostmaw Hollow loomed like a wound upon the land, its torches burning against the night.