The wind howled, slicing through their bones like a blade honed by winter itself. Snow fell in a silent cascade, but there was no peace in it—each flake clung to skin, soaked through threadbare boots, and whispered death with every gust.
Sylas's knees buckled, and he collapsed into the frost, his breath escaping in broken, fleeting clouds. His fingers were numb, his legs lifeless, the snow seeping through his ragged slave clothes to gnaw at his core. He opened his mouth to speak, to say he couldn't go on, but his voice had abandoned him, lost to the cold.
Boots crunched past, deliberate and unhurried.
Sylas barely lifted his head, catching the Priest's pristine cloak fluttering as he strode toward the dark silhouette of the Forsaken Temple. The man's face twisted with disdain.
"Tch. Worthless," he muttered, his voice sharp as the wind.
"If you're going to die, do it somewhere out of the way."
The words slid over Sylas like ice, familiar and cutting. He was used to being invisible, a shadow not worth noticing.
Then—a touch, gentle and warm against the chill.
"Hey."
The young soldier knelt beside him, his eyes soft with a kindness that felt out of place in this frozen hell. Barely older than Sylas, he pulled him to his feet, bracing his weight without hesitation.
Together, they stumbled forward, step by aching step. Far behind, the Hero lingered, half-shrouded in shadow.
His cracked armor gleamed dully, blood staining the snow at his feet. His gaze was distant, seeing nothing, helping no one—just watching, as if the world had drained him hollow.
Hours later, they found refuge in a shallow cave carved into the cliffside. It wasn't warm, but it was dry, a small mercy against the storm's claws.
A frail fire flickered at the center, its light dancing weakly across the stone. Silence settled over them, heavy and unbroken, until the Priest's voice cut through like a whip.
"Hey." Sharp. Cold. Sylas didn't move—he knew it was aimed at him.
"Unholy servant," the Priest continued, "bring us something to eat."
Sylas's body was a husk, trembling and empty. His legs barely held him.
"I don't… have the strength to walk," he said, his voice faint.
"I'm not a fighter." The Priest's lips curled into something crueler than a smile.
"Then crawl," he said, his tone flat, devoid of malice—somehow that stung worse.
"Or die."
The Hero's head lifted, just for a moment. Their eyes locked, and Sylas saw it—the truth the Hero had ignored.
The Priest's righteousness was a lie, a mask worn thin by survival.
Yet the Hero said nothing, his gaze dropping away. He needed the Priest, for reasons Sylas couldn't grasp, and that need chained him as surely as iron bound the slaves.
Sylas's heart sank, a quiet ache blooming where hope had withered.
"I'll go with him."
The young soldier's voice broke the stillness, steady despite the tremor in his sword's sheath. He stood, facing the Hero.
"Let me go with him, my lord.
We'll find food. Anything."
The Hero nodded once, a flicker of relief in his eyes. The Priest scoffed but held his tongue. Sylas rose, his legs protesting, and the soldier offered a faint smile, steadying him.
They stepped into the storm together, the wind greeting them with a snarl. Two figures fading into white—one with hope, one with nothing.
---
The snow swallowed their steps, each one a battle against the cold that clawed past skin and bone. Sylas's body screamed for rest, but he pressed on, the soldier's heavy breaths a quiet anchor behind him.
They hadn't gone far when a stench hit—iron, rot, and blood, thick enough to choke on.
Sylas slowed, his boot catching on something soft beneath the snow. He looked down, and his heart plummeted.
A corpse, half-buried, its face frozen in a scream. Another lay nearby, limbs torn, flesh shredded like cloth. Some were fresh, blood still pooling, bodies twitching faintly.
The soldier dropped to his knees beside one, his voice a broken whisper.
"Gods… they were slaves… just like us."
Sylas's throat tightened, his gaze fixed ahead. The wounds weren't clean—no wolf could twist spines like that, shred flesh so savagely.
Something worse haunted this mountain. Then it came—a roar that split the air, deep and earth-shaking, like a mountain tearing itself apart.
"Help!"
the soldier screamed.
Sylas spun, and through the swirling white, a shadow loomed—taller than the tallest tree, its white fur blending with the storm.
Two massive horns curled from its head, and red eyes burned like hellfire. Its breath steamed like a volcano's heart, a cursed beast, fifty feet of raw destruction.
It didn't see them—it saw *through* them, a king claiming its domain.
"Run!"
Sylas's body moved before his mind caught up. They bolted, snow spraying in their wake, the cave's dark mouth their only hope.
They dove inside, collapsing onto the stone, lungs burning, lips too numb to speak. Sylas tried to warn them, but the cold had stolen his voice.
The Hero sat by the fire, silent. The Priest stood, arms crossed, his scowl cutting deeper than the wind.
"What is it now?" he snapped.
"You bring nothing but snow on your back?"
Sylas's mouth opened—no sound. The soldier tried, but his voice cracked to nothing. The Priest rolled his eyes and pushed past.
"Useless," he muttered, striding toward the cave's entrance.
Sylas lunged, grabbing his ankle, desperation breaking through.
"Don't…" he croaked. "Don't go." The Priest paused, then sneered.
"Don't you *ever* touch me again." His boot slammed into Sylas's face, sending him sprawling.
The Priest stepped outside—and the world answered. A massive shadow swept past.
*Snap.* A clawed hand, bigger than a man, seized him and yanked him into the storm.
"God protect me! I served you—Ahh—no, please—!"
His scream twisted into a gurgle, then silence, broken only by the drip of blood on snow. The Hero stood, hand on his blade, as the beast returned.
It crouched, its red eye peering into the cave like a god hunting sinners.
Sylas's breath stopped. Steel flashed—the Hero moved, his sword slashing across the creature's eye. The beast's scream shook the mountain, rocks cracking, the cave trembling.
"Get out!" the Hero roared.
"The temple—it's close! Run!"
Sylas grabbed the soldier and stumbled into the storm, the Forsaken Temple's black stone rising through the white like a wound in the world.
The beast pursued, charging on all fours, claws gouging the earth, steam rising from its back. Sylas and the soldier blended into the snow, their ragged clothes a faint shield. But the Hero—red hair blazing, golden armor glinting—stood out like fire against the blizzard.
The beast locked on. Sylas glanced back as the Hero swung his sword—not at the creature, but behind him. Steel met flesh. The soldier's scream tore through the storm.
"No—!" Sylas froze. The soldier fell, his leg gone, blood soaking the snow.
His armor cracked, his breath came in gasps.
"Thank you…" he whispered, eyes meeting Sylas's.
"For being my friend…"
The beast's shadow loomed. A massive hand snatched the soldier, crushing him with a sickening *crunch*. His body was tossed aside, limp and broken.
Sylas's tears burned, but his legs moved, carrying him through the snow.
He didn't realize he was running until the wind stung his face. The temple gates loomed ahead, black and unyielding, promising nothing but the end of this nightmare—or the start of another.
Behind him, the Hero ran, never looking back, his blade still dripping with the soldier's blood. Sylas's heart screamed, but his body pushed forward, chasing survival, chasing the dream he refused to let die.
.