The snow crunched under their boots as Eirik and Sigrin ascended the narrow, frozen trail toward the peak of Blóðfjall. Mist clung to the air like ghostly fingers, and the wind carried whispers too soft to understand—but too heavy to ignore.
> "Remember," Sigrin said as they reached a ledge overlooking the slave camp nestled in the cliffs, "we strike fast. Silent. You take the right barracks. I'll hit the cage guards. We meet at the center."
"And don't charge in like you did last time."
Eirik grunted in response, his hand tightening around his blade. His heart thudded not from fear—but from rage barely restrained.
Night fell fast in cursed lands.
With the black sky overhead and only the flicker of torches below, the raid began.
Sigrin moved like a shadow, his blade slicing through the dark. Eirik was not silent—but he was swift. His strikes were brutal and direct, forged by four years in the wild. Screams echoed into the snowy cliffs as trader after trader fell.
They reached the center of the camp, breath visible in the freezing air, surrounded by the fallen.
> "That's all of them," Eirik muttered, his voice hoarse. "We did it."
But then, the mountain shook.
Footsteps thundered like falling boulders. The iron door at the far end of the camp crashed open, and there he stood:
A mountain of a man, with steel-plated arms and a scarred face. Eyes like dead coal glared at the two boys standing among the bodies of his men.
The Iron Warden had returned from his hunt.
> "You little rats," he snarled, his voice like grinding metal. "I'll twist you into nails."
He charged before they could react.
The ground cracked beneath his boots as his iron arms slammed into them. Sigrin was flung aside. Eirik barely blocked the blow, his blade snapping in half.
They scrambled to regroup—Eirik using light magic to blind, Sigrin countering with ice spikes—but nothing pierced the Warden's skin. Iron magic encased him like a fortress.
> "He's not just a mage," Sigrin gasped, blood at his lip. "He is iron."
The boys were losing ground, fast.
And then—the sound of boots.
Measured. Calm. Echoing across blood and frost.
The Iron Warden paused, one eye twitching toward the sound.
From the shadows, a figure stepped forth. Cloaked in regal blue, with white fur trim and a sword of crystal ice at his hip.
> "Children shouldn't play with monsters," the newcomer said coolly. "Fortunately, I don't mind stepping in."
The Warden growled.
Eirik blinked.
> "Who…?"
> "Name's Bjarke," the noble answered, eyes locked on the Warden. "Sent here to deal with this filth."
He drew his sword, and frost danced across the steel.
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