By evening, the weary group reached the foot of the Dark Mountain. Shadows stretched long and cold across the rugged terrain, where snow dusted the upper ridges and thorny roots snaked through the lower slopes.
The sky bled into a heavy gray, and the air carried a biting chill that gnawed at exposed skin. Winds wailed through the black pines, their eerie howls weaving through the trees like restless spirits.
The mountain loomed above, silent and unyielding, its presence pressing down on the travelers like a warning.
Sylas trudged at the rear, his body trembling under tattered rags barely clinging to his frame. The iron cuffs around his neck and ankles had frozen solid, each step grinding pain into his bones.
His breath puffed out in short, wheezing clouds, and his legs wobbled, threatening to give way. Hunger and cold had carved hollows into his cheeks, but his eyes still flickered with a stubborn spark of life. Only fifteen slaves remained now.
Three had fallen in the snow, their bodies left behind without a glance. Two others hung limp, dragged through the frost like forgotten burdens.
Ahead marched twenty-one soldiers, their armor clinking faintly under the wind's roar. The Hero led them, his crimson cloak snapping like a banner, his sword gleaming with purpose.
Beside him, the Priest strode in flowing robes, his face set in a mask of cold indifference. Neither spared a thought for the slaves trailing behind.
To them, Sylas and the others were less than shadows—tools to be used, discarded if they broke. No one looked back to see if they lived or died.
Sylas's head lifted for a fleeting moment, his gaze catching on the cliffside above.
Something drifted there, half-hidden in the swirling snow—a skeletal figure cloaked in tattered black, its bony fingers curled around a gnarled staff. It hovered, silent as death, watching them. His heart stuttered.
He opened his mouth to shout a warning, but his voice cracked into nothing, swallowed by exhaustion. The figure vanished when he blinked, leaving only the ache of doubt. Was it real? He couldn't tell anymore. Numbness seeped deeper into his bones.
The wind shifted abruptly, and the forest fell silent. A low growl rumbled through the trees, deep and hungry, vibrating in Will's chest.
His breath caught as sixteen Dire Wolves emerged from the darkness, their massive forms like nightmares carved from shadow and frost.
Each beast towered twice the size of a bear, their glowing eyes slicing through the dusk, breath misting in the cold. Fur bristled along their spines, and their fangs glinted with savage intent.
The Hero stepped forward, his sword raised high.
"Hold formation!"
His voice rang out, steady and commanding, his cloak whipping in the gale. He slashed at the nearest wolf, but the blade only grazed its fur before the beast blinked out of reach, unharmed. Magic sparked uselessly in the air—spells that should have burned or bound fizzled into nothing.
These wolves were no ordinary monsters. Born of raw power and unnatural resilience, they defied the laws of steel and sorcery.
"Scatter!" the Hero shouted, his voice cracking with panic.
"Split into the woods!" Order dissolved into chaos.
Soldiers bolted like frightened deer, stumbling over roots and screaming as jaws snapped at their heels. Some fell, dragged into the snow with sickening crunches.
The Priest vanished into the blizzard, his robes flapping like a coward's flag. Sylas stood rooted, his legs refusing to move, his heart pounding louder than the wolves' growls.
A rough voice shattered his stupor.
"Brat! You think you can die here?!"
A massive figure barreled through the fray—Loid, a towering man with muscles like carved stone and scars crisscrossing his weathered face. His hands were bare, smeared with dirt and blood, but his eyes burned with fierce resolve. Without a word, he seized a heavy rock and smashed it against Sylas's ankle shackle.
The metal shattered with a sharp *clang*.
"Run, kid," Loid growled, yanking Sylas up by the collar as if he weighed nothing.
Sylas gasped, his feet scrambling for purchase as Loid hauled him forward. Around them, the wolves tore into slaves and soldiers alike.
Screams pierced the air, mingling with the snap of bones and the wet rip of flesh. Blood splattered the snow like spilled ink, vivid against the white.
Loid carried two slaves—Sylas in one arm, an old man in the other—charging through the carnage without slowing. His breath came in harsh bursts, but his steps never faltered.
They burst into a clearing where a narrow wooden bridge stretched across a jagged ravine, its planks swaying in the wind.
The only path to safety. Behind them, the wolves' howls grew louder, their claws scraping closer. The bridge groaned under their weight, each step a creaking plea for mercy.
Snow lashed across the ravine, blurring the world into a haze of cold and white. Sylas clung to Loid's arm, his heart hammering as the wolves' snarls echoed at their heels.
In the middle of the bridge, Loid stopped. His chest heaved, blood streaking his arms and tattered cloak. Gently, he set Sylas and the old man down beside the ropes.
"That's as far as I go," he said, his voice low but firm. "You two—run."
Sylas's throat tightened, his voice barely a whisper.
"You're staying to fight them?"
Loid nodded, calm as stone.
"They're coming fast. This bridge won't hold if I stay. But it'll hold *you*."
Snow clung to Sylas's eyelashes as he stared, disbelief choking him.
"Wait—what's your name?"
A faint smile crossed Loid's face, softening the wild edges of his scarred features.
"Loid. My name's Loid, kid. Don't forget it, alright?" His hand landed on Sylas's shoulder, warm despite the biting cold.
"You told me about your dream, remember? Go live it. For me. For everyone who fell."
Sylas's chest ached, tears stinging his eyes. His hands shook, but he turned, grabbing the old man's arm. They stumbled across the swaying bridge, the wind howling around them. Halfway across, the old man yanked his arm free.
"No, Sylas. I'm not going any further."
Will froze.
"What?! What are you saying?"
The old man's eyes were steady, his voice quiet but sure.
"I'm old. My bones are brittle, my time's short.
But Loid? He'll need someone watching his back."
Sylas shook his head, panic rising.
"Are you sick, old man? You'll die!"
"Maybe. But it's better than doing nothing." The old man's hand brushed Sylas's shoulder, a fleeting touch. "You, though—you still have time.
You still have something to fight *for*."
"I'm sorry…"Sylas's voice cracked, barely audible.
"Don't be." The old man turned and walked back, his steps slow but resolute, toward the side where monsters waited.
Sylas stood there, fists clenched, until Loid's voice roared across the gap. "This bridge is closed! As long as I stand here, not a single one of you bastards is getting across!" The wolves appeared—giant, snarling shadows in the snow.
They lunged, jaws snapping. Loid charged with a bellow that shook the trees, fists swinging like hammers. The old man raised trembling hands, sparks of fading magic swirling around him.
"Let's go out fighting, huh, Loid?" the old man called, his voice defiant.
"Hell yeah, old man," Loid roared back.
Sylas stumbled to the other side, legs buckling as he collapsed in the snow. He turned back, tears blurring his vision, and watched.
Loid fought like a storm, tearing into wolves with raw, unrelenting fury. The old man cast his last spells, frail hands glowing with desperate light. Sylas's heart burned, a sob catching in his throat.
"Why… why do they have to act like heroes…?"
He wasn't brave. He wasn't noble. He was just a boy who wanted to live. But now, he carried the weight of two men who'd given him that chance.
The old man's magic flared one final time, then faded. His body crumpled beside Loid, spent like a candle burned to nothing. A magic death, quiet and final.
Loid's roar of grief split the air, but he didn't stop. He seized a wolf's jaw and tore it apart with brute strength. Another he battered into the snow, fists pounding until it lay still.
Three Dire Wolves fell at his feet, their massive bodies broken. Blood poured from a dozen wounds across Loid's body. One arm hung useless, his breath ragged and red in the cold. Yet he stood, unbroken, a wall of defiance.
The remaining wolves circled, their growls uncertain. Six monsters, hesitating. Loid's voice rumbled like gravel.
"Come, then. Cross this bridge… if you dare."
They didn't. One by one, they turned and fled, tails low, vanishing into the shadows. They knew they couldn't win. Not against him.
Loid stood tall until the last wolf was gone. Only then did his legs buckle. He sank to one knee, then slumped forward, silent.
His body stilled, but his spirit lingered—etched into the splintered wood, burned into the bloodied snow. He died like a king, a man whose name would fade but whose stand would echo like legend.
Far ahead, Sylas lay trembling in the snow, tears freezing on his cheeks. He looked back at the ruined bridge and saw nothing but silence. Yet he felt it—Loid hadn't just died for him.
He'd died to give him a future. Sylas crawled forward, the cold biting deep, but desperation pushed him on. Then he saw them—fresh footprints in the snow, leading into the vast, dense forest.
He followed, stumbling through the wind until three figures emerged like ghosts beneath a ridge. The Hero, his armor dented but intact.
The Priest, robes pristine despite the chaos. And a young soldier, barely older than Will, his face pale with shock. They had escaped.
The Hero turned, his eyes widening. "You survived…" His voice was soft, almost warm. "Thank the heavens."
Sylas thought he saw the hint of a smile. But beside the Hero, the Priest spat into the snow, his face twisting.
"Look at him! I warned you, Hero. That unholy slave is a curse! We've lost soldiers, resources, carriages—this was a holy journey, and now it's ruined!"
The words stung, sharp and bitter. Will's head lowered, his heart still racing, his body numb. But something inside him snapped, a quiet fire flaring where fear had been.
Then the Hero's voice cut through like a blade.
"Enough."
The Priest blinked, startled. "W-What did you—"
"I said *enough*," the Hero growled, his jaw tight. "He is not a curse. He's the only one who made it through." His gaze shifted to Sylas, steady and unflinching. For the first time, Will felt seen—not as a slave, but as something more.
The weight of Loid's sacrifice, the old man's final stand, pulsed in his chest. He was alive. And that was enough—for now.