The frozen valley lay quiet after Malrion's retreat, the mist settling like a heavy blanket over the ice, its whispers fading into the wind that swept across the smooth surface. The Nightbound, still seventeen strong under their alpha Kael, stood shoulder to shoulder with the five Old Blood wolves, their ember red eyes glowing softly in the dim light, their bodies humming with the vampire-like healing bestowed by the complete Rite. The bond between Ethan and the Blade of Severance had sealed their fate, the ritual's magic coursing through them, mending wounds with a speed that left them awestruck, their strength a constant now, warm against the cold. The air carried a sharp chill, but their skin felt alive, resilient, the healing a gift that filled them with quiet confidence. Ethan held the Blade of Severance close, its light steady and bright, his pale silver hair catching the weak sunlight that filtered through the clouds, a mark of his recovery and the power now fused with his soul. He breathed deep, the tiredness in his amber eyes fading, replaced by a steady resolve. Elara stood beside him, her golden eyes shadowed by exhaustion from the long journey across rugged lowlands and shadowed hills, her face pale and drawn, her body weary to the bone. Yet her spirit burned, the vial's fire a quiet strength at her neck, her fear for Ethan easing into a determined hope as she watched him stand tall.
Kael scanned the horizon, his broad frame steady, his healed arm a testament to the Rite's power. The howl lingered in their ears, closer than ever, a deep call that promised war, its vibration stirring their blood. We move north, he said, his voice firm, his ember red eyes meeting theirs with quiet authority. The howl points the way. He pointed toward the jagged peaks ahead, where the mist parted slightly, revealing a faint path upward, a trail they could not ignore. The packs gathered their weapons, swords, bows, arrows, and whips clinking softly as they adjusted them, their hands steady despite the cold that nipped at their skin. The Rite had given them an edge, their bodies quick and enduring, their spirits lifted by the promise of facing the generals together. Elara nodded, her voice soft but sure. We follow the Veil's pull. It guides us. Ethan gripped the blade tighter, its warmth spreading through him, a silent agreement in his stance.
They marched from the valley at a steady pace, the ice crunching underfoot, the mist parting like a curtain as the land rose into jagged hills. The sky grew heavy with dark clouds, the air colder, and Elara felt the Veil tug at her chest, a guide through the unknown, her exhaustion battling her will to keep moving. She leaned on Ethan, his strength a support, the blade's light a beacon in the pale morning. Ethan moved with growing confidence, each step lighter, the blade's pulse a rhythm that matched his heartbeat, though he stayed close to Elara, his hand brushing hers in silent comfort. The hills turned rocky, frost covering the slopes, the howl growing louder, a sound that made their hearts race with anticipation and dread. Kael led with quiet focus, his Nightbound flanking in a tight formation, their ember red eyes scanning the mist, arrows ready. Rufik guarded the rear, his blunt four cornered blade in hand, his healed leg moving with ease, his senses sharp as a wolf's.
After hours of travel, the mist thickened, and Kael raised a hand, his voice low. We rest here. The packs slowed, finding a sheltered hollow among the rocks, the ice smooth and cold beneath them. Elara sank to the ground, her breath heavy, her body protesting, but relief washed over her as she sat. Ethan knelt beside her, the blade resting across his knees, its light dimming slightly, a sign of his focus on her. Kael stood watch, his eyes on the mist, while Helena unpacked herbs, her hands steady. Rufik sat apart, pulling a sharpening stone from his pack, the rough texture familiar in his grip. His blunt blade had served him well, but its edges were worn, requiring too much might. He ran the stone along the metal, the scrape a steady rhythm, sparks flying as he worked. The blade began to take a finer edge, its weight lighter in his hand, promising higher performance with less effort. He tested it against a rock, the cut clean and easy, a grin spreading across his face. Better, he muttered, his voice thick with satisfaction.
The rest brought a moment of peace, the howl a distant echo, the mist curling around them like a watchful guardian. Elara closed her eyes, the vial's warmth soothing her, her mind drifting to the dream of the sigil handoff, the traitor's shadow a weight on her heart. Ethan watched her, his hand resting on the blade, its pulse steadying him. We'll find it, he said, his voice soft, a promise in his eyes. She nodded, tears pricking her eyes, her exhaustion mingling with hope. Kael joined them, his voice rough. The generals gather. We're close. Helena offered water, her face calm. The Rite holds us together. You're stronger now.
As dusk fell, a shadow flickered in the mist, gone before they could react, the traitor's tease sparking their anger. The howl grew louder, and scouts appeared, general minions with icy claws, their hisses cutting the air. Kael roared, the Nightbound firing arrows, the shafts splintering ice. Rufik swung his sharpened blade, the cut precise, requiring less might, shattering a scout with ease. Elara chanted, the vial flaring, and Ethan struck with the blade, its shockwave scattering the enemy. The skirmish ended fast, the scouts retreating, the mist hiding the traitor's laugh. The packs stood unharmed, their healing holding, their strength tested.
They reached a ruined fortress by night, its walls cracked and covered in frost, the howl's source within. The air grew thick with power, the generals' presence a shadow, the mist swirling with the traitor's influence. Kael's voice was steady. We enter at dawn. The packs nodded, their weapons ready, the Rite's bond a shield, the war ahead a challenge they would face as one.