Chapter 8: The Frostbound Trail

The mountain trail was a scar across Veyrholt's frozen peaks, a narrow path of ice-slick stone that wound through jagged cliffs and stunted pines, their branches heavy with snow that glittered like shattered glass in the pale midday light. Kael moved with a predator's grace, his boots crunching through the frost, each step a jolt of pain that radiated through his battered body. The shard pulsed in his chest, a cold rhythm that kept him upright, but its whispers were a storm now, a relentless hiss that sank into his bones.

"They hunt," the voice urged, its tone a blade's edge, hungry and unyielding. "Let them break."

Kael's jaw clenched, his breath misting in the frigid air, a ragged cloud that vanished as quickly as it formed. The shard's influence was a fire in his gut, sharpening his rage into something he didn't recognize, and it took every ounce of will to keep it caged. His hands trembled, the stolen sword at his hip a leaden weight, its blade still crusted with the blood of Valthor's men. The rune stone in his cloak felt heavier than it should, its faint blue glow a constant reminder of the cave's markings, the cloaked figure's words—"The vessel wakes, but the forge waits."

What forge? Kael thought, the question a splinter in his mind, sharp and unyielding. The shard was changing him, turning his thoughts into a blade, and he feared what he'd find at the end of this trail—not just Valthor's dogs, but the truth of what he was becoming.

Torvald trailed a few paces behind, a hulking shadow in battered steel, his maul slung across his back, his shoulder stiff with pain. The wound from the shard's errant blast had scabbed over, but the stain spread dark across his armor, a grim reminder of Kael's loss of control. His breath came in ragged gasps, each one a hiss of effort, but his eyes were sharp, flicking between Kael and the trail ahead, a wariness that hadn't been there before the pass. The Iron Pact was a thread stretched to breaking, and Kael could feel the tension like a blade at his throat.

He'll turn on me, the shard whispered, its paranoia sinking deeper, and Kael's gaze flicked to Torvald, searching for a sign of betrayal. He's waiting for his moment.

"Eyes up, Draven," Torvald muttered, voice low, his good hand tightening on his maul. "We're not alone."

He nodded toward the trail's bend, where the pines thinned, revealing a flicker of movement—black-and-gold armor glinting in the light, the faint clink of steel on stone. A Valthor scouting party, six strong, their voices a low murmur as they scanned the trail, their bows and swords at the ready.

Kael's lips curled into a snarl, a promise of blood in the frozen air. The shard's pulse quickened, a cold fire in his veins, and he felt the rage surge, unbidden, a beast he couldn't cage.

"Kill," the voice hissed, its hunger a weight in his chest, and Kael didn't fight it this time. He needed this—needed the release, the clarity that came with blood. He drew his sword, the blade scraping against its sheath with a hollow ring, and charged, a shadow in motion, his movements a blur of shard-fueled speed.

The first scout barely had time to raise his bow before Kael was on him, his sword slashing upward in a brutal arc that caught the man under the chin, steel biting through flesh and bone with a wet crunch. Blood sprayed, warm against the cold, a crimson arc that steamed in the frost as the body fell, lifeless, into the snow.

The second scout loosed an arrow, a desperate shot that hissed through the air, but Kael's arm snapped up, the shard's heat flaring in his palm, and the arrow shattered mid-flight, splinters raining down like ash.

Torvald roared, a low, guttural sound that echoed through the trail, his maul swinging in a wide, brutal arc that smashed through a scout's shield like it was kindling, the man behind it crumpling with a scream, his chest caved in a spray of blood and bone. The pass erupted into chaos—steel clashing, men shouting, the air thick with the coppery tang of blood and the sharp bite of frost.

Kael fought like a beast, his movements a blur, the shard's power surging through him with every strike. He parried a sword thrust, the blade screeching against his own, and drove his fist into the man's gut, steel buckling under the blow. The scout doubled over, gasping, and Kael's sword found his throat, a quick, clean cut that sent blood gushing into the snow.

But the shard's influence was a double-edged blade. With every kill, the rage grew, a fire in his gut that threatened to consume him. His vision blurred, the shard's pulse thundering in his ears, its voice a relentless hiss: "More."

Kael's hands trembled, the sword shaking in his grip, and he felt the heat in his palm flare unbidden, a fire he couldn't control. He thrust his hand out, desperate, and a jagged blue arc tore through the air—wild, unstable, crackling with a life of its own. It struck the last scout, burning through his armor like parchment, his scream cut short as he collapsed, smoke curling from the ruin of his chest.

The trail was silent now, the snow churned red with blood, bodies strewn like broken dolls, their armor glinting dully in the light. Kael stood, chest heaving, the sword heavy in his hand, blood dripping from its edge into the snow.

Torvald leaned on his maul, his shoulder bleeding anew, a dark stain that spread with every breath. "You're getting worse," he said, voice low, his eyes hard as flint. "That thing's going to kill us both if you don't get a grip."

Kael's chest tightened, a pang of guilt he couldn't shake, but the shard's paranoia surged, a cold whisper in his mind: "He threatens you."

He took a step forward, the sword still in his hand, his voice low, a snarl. "I'm trying," he said, each word a struggle. "You don't know what it's like—what it's doing to me."

His hands trembled, the rage ebbing but leaving a cold knot in his gut, heavier than before. I'm losing myself, he thought, the realization a blade in his chest, sharp and unyielding.

Torvald's eyes narrowed, a flicker of doubt in his gaze, but he didn't push, didn't argue. He turned, limping down the trail, his maul dragging behind him, leaving a faint trail of blood in the snow. Kael followed, his steps heavy, the shard's pulse a steady rhythm that matched the pounding of his heart.

The trail wound deeper into the mountains, the cliffs closing in, the air growing colder with every step. Kael's breath misted in the dim light, a faint glow from the shard casting jagged shadows on the stone, a reminder of its presence, its power, its cost.

They stopped at a narrow ledge, the trail dropping into a ravine below, its depths swallowed by shadow. A faint hum broke the silence, a sound that sank into Kael's bones, and the rune stone in his cloak flared, its blue glow pulsing in time with the shard.

Kael's gaze snapped to the ravine's edge, where a hidden shrine stood—carved into the stone, its surface etched with runes that glowed with the same blue light as the shard. The shard pulsed, uneasy, a tremor that echoed in Kael's bones, and a voice—not the shard's, but something older, deeper—whispered through the air: "The forge hungers."

Kael's breath caught, the shard's pulse surging, a cold fire in his veins. The voice was a promise, a threat, and Kael knew it was tied to the Starborn Covenant, to the shard's true purpose.

But before he could step closer, a horn blared in the distance—sharp, angry, a call that promised more steel, more blood. Valthor's warband was coming, and they weren't alone. A cloaked figure stood on the ravine's far edge, their rune-etched ring glinting in the light, their presence a weight in the dark.