After an entire day…
The group carved their way through slick rocks and piled snow, advancing with slow, exhausting steps toward the mountain's upper reaches.
The wind howled around them like a living thing—slapping their faces, tearing at their breaths—while the snow slipped beneath their feet, as if the mountain itself were trying to cast them down.
Likath spoke as he moved ahead, his steps steady despite the fatigue.
"Near the summit, there's a side path… relatively safe. It leads to a rally point guarded by veteran warriors."
His voice wasn't loud, yet it carried a strange confidence—
as though he knew this mountain far better than he should.
At the front, Likath walked beside the old man, Novak.
With every step, Novak's foot sank deep into the snow, his narrow eyes watching the path in heavy silence.
In the middle, Rolin advanced carefully, Lulu clinging to his back—her small arms wrapped tightly around his neck.
She was light… painfully light.
Yet her presence weighed on his mind more than he dared admit.
At the rear—
Was Rak.
His massive body struggled through the jagged rocks, his expression strained beyond what exhaustion alone could explain.
He was breathing heavily—so heavily that the veins in his neck bulged and throbbed, as if they might burst at any moment.
Lulu noticed.
She turned, her wide, innocent eyes fixing on him, and asked in a sincere, childlike voice,
"Big uncle… are you okay?"
Rak paused for a second, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his glove, faint irritation flickering across his face.
"I'm fine… probably just caught a little cold."
Lulu tilted her head, thinking deeply, then brightened with sudden enthusiasm.
"Really? Then I'll give you a kiss—and the sickness will go away!"
Rak froze.
Then a small, tired smile barely formed on his rugged face.
"No need… I don't like kisses."
Lulu puffed her cheeks in visible annoyance and turned her face away without a word—
a silent declaration of protest.
Rolin observed quietly.
He glanced at Rak once—no mockery, no pity—then returned his focus to the path, continuing in silence.
But while everyone else focused on the climb…
Someone hadn't looked away.
Novak.
The old man slowed his steps slightly, his gaze lingering on Rak.
It wasn't suspicion.
Nor hostility.
Nor simple curiosity.
It was… strange.
The look of a man who had seen something familiar—
in a place it should never exist.
Rak noticed.
He clenched his jaw and turned slightly, exhaling.
"Lose something on my face, old man?"
Novak didn't answer immediately.
He calmly shifted his gaze forward and resumed walking beside Likath, then said in a vague tone,
"Perhaps."
One word.
Yet it was enough.
Rak cursed silently, biting his lip as discomfort crept into his chest—
the unsettling feeling that he had, suddenly, become more exposed than he should be.
The mountain, however…
Remained silent.
A heavy, cold silence—
as if it were watching them, step by step…
waiting.
After another hour of relentless travel, the group stopped within a narrow fissure in the mountain—like an old wound split open between stone walls.
The towering rock on both sides blocked the wind, granting them a rare, temporary refuge from the storm.
They lit a fire.
A small orange flame danced to life, its glow reflecting off exhausted faces and melting snow that dripped slowly from the rocks above.
Likath sat near the fire, skillfully turning chunks of meat over the flames.
No one asked where he got it.
Or when.
In this place… questions were an unwelcome luxury.
Lulu sat beside him, helping with utmost seriousness, gripping a wooden stick longer than her arm and flipping the meat with exaggerated care.
"Like this?" she asked excitedly.
Likath smiled faintly—a rare thing.
"Yes… perfect."
Lulu puffed up with pride, as if she'd saved the entire group.
Nearby, Novak was occupied with something else.
He squatted low, holding a small leather flask open while his other hand trembled faintly.
In his palm—
A dark red liquid.
Thick.
Viscous.
Disgusting.
Its metallic stench burned the nose even from a distance.
Slowly, carefully, Novak poured the liquid into small bottles, filling them one by one before sealing them tightly and placing them into his leather bag.
He didn't speak.
No one asked.
But Rolin noticed.
Rolin sat silently on a cold rock, arms wrapped around his knees, eyes drifting calmly across the group.
He watched Likath cook.
Watched Lulu laugh.
Watched Novak… and the red liquid vanish into glass.
Likath had ordered it—for some unknown purpose.
And that alone was troubling.
On the opposite side of the fissure—
Was Rak.
He sat slightly away from the fire, his back against the rock, shoulders sagging under an unnatural weight.
He was pale… frighteningly pale.
All warmth had drained from his face, as if the blood were slowly retreating.
Cold sweat glistened on his brow despite the freezing air, his chest rising and falling unevenly.
Then—
He coughed.
A dry, deep cough that shook his massive body.
He paused, struggling to breathe… then coughed again—harder.
His fist trembled as he tried to suppress it, but his body betrayed him.
The coughing worsened.
Each time more violent than the last, as though something inside him were tearing itself apart.
Lulu lifted her head in concern.
Likath paused his cooking.
And Novak…
Did not move.
But his eyes—
They gleamed with a faint, knowing light.
As if he saw… and understood something.
Rolin remained calm.
Minutes later, they finished eating in near silence.
It wasn't hunger that drove them—only the need to survive.
Even Lulu, who had laughed earlier, ate quietly and soon fell asleep, her head resting against Likath's bag, breaths small and steady—as though the mountain were nothing more than a bad dream that could never reach her.
One by one, the sounds faded.
Novak lay near the rocks, eyes closed, body alert.
Likath watched the fire a moment longer before closing his eyes.
Only two remained awake.
Rak… and Rolin.
The night was thick.
Darkness filled the fissure, the moon hanging above, sending down a thin silver thread that mingled with the fire's trembling glow.
The fire—
Was the only sign of life in this place.
Rak coughed violently.
A hollow, tearing cough ripped from his chest.
He covered his mouth, tried to suppress it—and failed.
Then he spoke, his voice hoarse, as if the words themselves caused pain:
"…Why were you imprisoned?"
Another cough—worse.
Rolin didn't turn right away.
He stared into the fire, watching the wood crack and whisper, as if sharing ancient secrets.
He thought for a moment.
Then replied, plainly:
"I committed an unforgivable crime…
and turned myself in."
Silence.
Rak didn't ask what the crime was.
There was no curiosity—only exhaustion.
He exhaled slowly, as if the question had drained what little remained of him.
"…I used to own a small restaurant."
He coughed.
The fire crackled sharply, breaking the silence—then everything felt heavier than before.
Rolin tossed him a water flask without a word.
Rak caught it with difficulty, drank deeply, then set it aside.
"Thanks."
"No need."
Rak stared into the fire.
The flames reflected in his eyes—but he wasn't there.
Then he continued, regret slowly crawling across his face:
"I worked with my wife…
and my daughter was about that girl's age."
He nodded toward Lulu, smiling in her sleep—running through a warm dream far from this mountain.
"My wife… was beautiful.
Truly beautiful.
And I loved her—not as something I owned… but as my entire life."
He swallowed hard.
"We lived our best days.
The restaurant wasn't big, but it made enough for a small family…
We were happy."
Then—
He stopped.
The warmth vanished, replaced by something dark.
Sharp.
"…Until that day."
Rolin didn't ask.
Didn't move.
Interrupting now would be a crime.
"A noble entered the restaurant.
He looked at my wife… not the food."
Rak clenched his fist.
"He flirted.
Got too close.
So I threw him out."
A short, joyless laugh escaped him.
"I knew…
A noble never forgets.
And never forgives."
He coughed again, wiping his mouth.
"A month passed.
Long enough that I forgot."
Silence.
Then, brokenly:
"I went hunting with a friend.
A friend… I thought was my brother."
Tears gathered in his eyes—not falling, but unmistakable in the firelight.
"When I returned…"
His voice dropped.
"The restaurant was destroyed… burned."
His jaw tightened.
"I entered the house…
and found my wife… dead."
He paused, the next words tearing at him.
"After they did… things…
I don't want to remember."
Rolin didn't blink.
Rak continued, heavier:
"I never found my daughter.
Never."
His fist trembled.
"Then I understood.
My friend… the one who took me hunting…
sold me out to the noble for money."
He lifted his head.
His expression was no longer sad.
It was sharp.
Hard.
"I killed my friend."
No hesitation.
"Then I went to the noble's estate.
Stormed it…
and killed him."
He exhaled slowly.
"And now… here I am."
Silence fell.
Only the fire moved.
Only the moon bore witness.
And in that moment, Rolin realized one thing:
This man…
Was not a monster.
He was a human who had been broken—
and forced to become something else.
Rolin was truly affected by Rak's story.
Not because he hadn't heard such tales before—
but because he had heard them too often.
Stories of nobles.
Of injustice without consequence.
Of families erased by power and boredom.
He'd heard worse.
Seen worse.
That didn't lessen the pain.
It made it… familiar.
Rak leaned back against the cold stone and slowly closed his eyes.
Not the collapse of a man overcome by fever—but someone who had finally chosen rest.
His breathing steadied.
His chest rose and fell evenly.
For the first time since Rolin had met him—
Rak looked… at peace.
No tension in his brow.
No hardness in his jaw.
No buried rage hiding behind each breath.
A simple peace.
Late… but real.
Rolin stood silently.
He approached the fire, nudged the embers with his boot until the flames died down, leaving only faint warmth.
Then he lay down, resting his arm beneath his head, staring briefly at the sky barely visible between the rocks.
And whispered, as though afraid to wake death itself:
"I hope, with all my heart…
your daughter is alive and living a beautiful life.
And that you… find peace,
beside your wife."
He didn't know if Rak heard him.
It didn't matter.
Rolin closed his eyes.
And slept.
With the first light of dawn, the rocky fissure regained its pale colors.
The air was colder—cleaner—
as if the night had washed the place of its tears.
Everyone awoke…
Except two.
Lulu.
And Rak.
Rolin gently lifted Lulu, wrapping her in his coat, ensuring her breathing remained steady—small and warm.
Then—
Likath approached Rak.
He knelt and shook his shoulder gently.
Once.
Then again.
"Rak?"
No response.
Likath frowned and placed two fingers on Rak's neck.
Two seconds.
Three.
Four.
Nothing.
Likath slowly raised his head.
His expression wasn't panicked.
Nor sorrowful.
It was dark.
Calm.
The look of a man who had seen death many times—and knew when words were pointless.
He shook his head.
No.
No pulse.
Rak…
Was dead.
There was no scream.
No crying.
Even the mountain remained silent.
As if this time, death hadn't come to take something—
But to return something long lost.
Peace.