Chapter 5: The Iron Pact

The dawn broke over Veyrholt's peaks, a pale, bloodless light that did nothing to warm the frozen ridge. The wind carried the scent of pine and ash, a bitter reminder of the canyon's carnage, but Kael's focus was on the horizon, where the glow of Valthor's torches had grown into a sea of fire.

Fifty men, Torvald had said, and now Kael could see them—black-and-gold banners snapping in the breeze, their warband spreading through the forest like a plague. The shard pulsed in his chest, a cold rhythm that matched the pounding of his heart, but its whispers were silent for once, as if waiting, watching.

Kael didn't trust the silence—it felt like the calm before a storm, a storm he might not survive.

"They will return," the shard had said, its words echoing in his mind, but it wasn't Valthor that haunted him now. The cloaked figure's cryptic warning—"The vessel wakes, but the forge waits"—had rooted deep, a splinter of paranoia that wouldn't dislodge.

Vessel.

The word felt like a brand, a mark of something he didn't understand, something the shard had chosen him for. The old man's ring, the cloaked figure's hum—they were tied to the shard, to a purpose Kael couldn't see, and the thought made his skin crawl.

What forge? he wondered, his thoughts sharper, colder than they'd been days ago. The shard was changing him, turning his mind into a blade, and he didn't know how much of himself he'd lose before it was done.

Torvald stood at the ridge's edge, his maul planted in the snow, his scarred face unreadable as he watched the warband approach.

"They'll be here by midday," he said, voice low, his breath misting in the cold. "We can't outrun them—not with that many." He glanced at Kael, his grin faint, but there was a hardness in his eyes, a question he didn't ask. "You've got a plan, Draven, or are we just dying here?"

Kael's gaze didn't waver, flint-gray and unyielding, but the shard's influence stirred, a flicker of aggression that made his hand twitch toward the stolen sword at his hip.

Kill them all, the thought came, unbidden, a whisper that wasn't his own.

He forced it down, his jaw tightening, but the urge lingered, a fire in his gut he couldn't quench.

"We don't run," he said, voice low, each word a promise. "We fight. We make them bleed for every step."

Torvald's grin widened, a mirror of the cold, but there was a flicker of respect in his eyes, a spark that hadn't been there before.

"That's a start," he said, hefting his maul. "But fifty against two? We'll need more than guts, runt. We'll need a choke point—somewhere they can't swarm us."

Kael nodded, his mind already racing, the shard's influence sharpening his thoughts into something colder, more calculating.

The ridge sloped down into a narrow pass, a bottleneck where the pines grew thick, their branches heavy with snow. It was a natural trap—if they could lure the warband in, they could cut them down a few at a time, use the terrain to even the odds.

But the shard's pulse quickened, a warning he couldn't ignore, and the memory of the cloaked figure lingered, a shadow on the edge of his thoughts.

They're still out there, he thought, the shard's paranoia sinking deeper. Watching. Waiting.

"We'll use the pass," Kael said, pointing to the slope below. "Funnel them in, take them down piece by piece."

He glanced at Torvald, his eyes narrowing, the shard's suspicion stirring again. "You're with me, or you're not. Choose now."

Torvald's grin didn't waver, but his eyes hardened, a killer's gaze that matched Kael's own.

"I'm with you, Draven," he said, voice low, a promise of his own. "But don't think I'm here for your pretty face. Valthor took something from me, too—something I'll carve out of their hides, one way or another."

He paused, his grin fading, his tone softer but no less sharp.

"We're in this together, runt. Call it a pact—the Iron Pact. You and me, against them all."

Kael's lips twitched, a grim echo of a smile, but the shard's paranoia lingered, a cold whisper in his mind: Can I trust him?

He pushed the thought down, nodding once, a silent agreement.

The Iron Pact—it was a start, a bond forged in blood and steel, but Kael knew it wouldn't be enough.

Not against fifty men, not against the cloaked figure, not against the shard's growing hold on him.

They moved down the slope, the pass closing in around them, the pines a wall of shadow and snow. Kael's hand rested on the sword's hilt, the shard's pulse steady, but his thoughts were a storm, the shard's influence sharpening his rage, his paranoia, his will to survive.

The warband's shouts grew louder, their banners a sea of black and gold, and Kael's lips curled into a snarl, a promise of blood in the frozen dawn.