The northern wind carried silence like a weapon. Days had passed since Lore felled the Demon Snow Lion, yet its death had not lifted the frost. The mountains remained cold and cruel, indifferent to triumph.
Lore moved slowly, each step dragging against deep snow and frozen stone. The cave where the beast fell was now far behind him, sealed in darkness and ash. His body bore the cost—deep gashes along his ribs, scorched skin at the edges of his fingers where fire magic had burned too hot, too fast. The victory was his, but it had come at a quiet, personal cost.
His sword hung at his side, its presence a comfort. He had cleaned it after the battle, wiping away blood and soot, inspecting it out of habit. It had looked intact in the flickering firelight. Unbroken. He didn't notice the faint fracture—almost invisible, hidden beneath the surface. There was no reason to suspect it. Not yet.
The mountains were vast, their trails uncertain. Lore traveled mostly alone, keeping his presence minimal. He avoided ridgelines and high paths where snowdrifts could bury him alive. When the winds howled, he hunkered in narrow rock hollows or the ruins of long-forgotten watchposts, rationing his food and guarding what little warmth he could conjure.
He used magic sparingly. Each time he lit a fire or warmed his blood to stave off the chill, something inside the magic resisted. It didn't feel like fatigue—it felt like something strained. Off balance. His flames sparked too quickly, or sputtered without reason. Sometimes they burned hotter than intended, and once, in a dream, they whispered.
Still, he didn't speak of it—not even to himself.
On the eighth night, he crossed a glacial lake, frozen over so thickly that his footsteps echoed with every step. He moved in total darkness, guided only by the stars above and the compass sewn into the lining of his cloak. The silence was overwhelming. It gave him too much time to think.
He remembered Darius. He remembered Hamel. He remembered Alaric's voice in the back of his head: *"Control. Don't push until the magic pushes back."*
Lore clenched a fist. He had pushed. He had needed to. And it had saved his life.
But he couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed in the doing.
By the twelfth day, the terrain began to shift. The mountains did not recede, but their angles softened. Pines replaced jagged cliffs. The cold, while still harsh, no longer bit as cruelly. He hunted when he could—small game, nothing more. Once, he came across an old traveler's shrine: stone stacked around a rusted spear. He left a few dried berries at its base and moved on.
He said nothing aloud, but in his chest, a fire stirred. It wasn't pride.
It was momentum.
Lore did not know how long it would take to reach Windas.
He only knew this: the Demon Snow Lion was dead. The mountains had not killed him. Whatever came next, he would face it on his feet—with blade in hand, cloak at his shoulders, and fire in his blood.
Unseen in the scabbard at his side, the crack in the sword deepened by a fraction.
But Lore did not yet feel it.
Not yet