The wind howled across the ice peaks of Khaligar like the breath of some upset diety, carrying with it the scent of snow and something darker—something that made the wolves restless. Sir Kaelan Ironwright pulled his frost-lined cloak tighter around his shoulders, the fabric crackling with each movement. Ice crystals had formed on his beard during the three-day hunt, and his breath came in sharp white puffs that vanished almost instantly in the bitter air.
Below him, the narrow valley stretched between towering cliffs of black stone, their surfaces glazed with sheets of ice that caught the pale northern light like mirrors. The tracks he'd been following for hours led straight down into that valley—the massive paw prints of wolf-spirits, each one the size of a dinner plate and glowing faintly with an otherworldly blue radiance that never quite faded from the snow.
Kaelan adjusted his grip on his sword, feeling the familiar weight of the blade at his side. The weapon was a masterwork of northern smithing, its steel folded a hundred times and tempered in the volcanic springs of the Dwarfholds. More importantly, it was ready to channel his Essence—the inner power that had taken him fifteen years to master.
A sound echoed from the valley below. Not quite a howl, not quite a roar, but something have him goosebumps despite the cold. The wolf-spirits were close.
He began his descent, boots finding purchase on the treacherous ice-slick rocks. Each step was carefully planned. A fall here would mean death, and death would mean the spirits would continue their rampage through the frontier settlements. Three villages had already sent riders to the Icehold fortress, begging for aid. The local militia couldn't handle spirit-touched beasts. That was why they sent knights.
The valley floor was a maze of ice-covered boulders and frozen streams. Ancient runes carved into the stone told stories of the jötunn, the giant-kin who had once walked these lands. Kaelan had spent enough time in the north to read some of the old script. This valley had been a gathering place, once. A place where the giants had come to speak with the spirits of the world.
Now it was a hunting ground.
The first wolf-spirit emerged from behind a cluster of ice-draped rocks, its form shifting and wavering like smoke given shape. It was the size of a small horse, its fur a deep silver-blue that seemed to glow from within. Its eyes were twin points of cold fire, and when it opened its mouth, frost spilled out instead of breath.
Kaelan drew his sword in one smooth motion, the steel singing as it cleared the scabbard. He reached deep within himself, feeling for the wellspring of power that lay coiled in his chest. The Essence responded to his call, flowing through his body like liquid lightning. His sword began to shimmer, a barely visible aura of force coating the blade.
The wolf-spirit circled him, its massive paws making no sound on the ice. It was testing him, looking for weakness. Kaelan turned with it, keeping his sword ready, his breathing steady. He had fought these creatures before. They were fast, strong, and utterly without mercy. But they were also predictable.
The spirit lunged.
Kaelan sidestepped, bringing his Ironveil-enhanced blade up in a diagonal slash. The edge caught the creature across its flank, and where the sword touched, the spirit's form solidified for an instant. Blue fire sprayed from the wound, hissing as it hit the ice. The wolf-spirit stumbled, its ethereal form flickering.
But it wasn't alone.
Two more spirits emerged from the rocks, their forms rippling with the same cold fire. They spread out, trying to flank him. Kaelan backed toward a large boulder, using it to protect his rear. His sword moved in practiced arcs, the Ironveil coating making it deadly to creatures of spirit and flesh alike.
The second spirit attacked from his left, jaws snapping at his sword arm. Kaelan twisted away, the creature's teeth closing on empty air. He brought his pommel down on its skull, the impact sending shock waves through its form. The spirit dissolved into mist, but he knew it would reform in moments.
The third spirit was already moving, coming at him low, going for his legs. Kaelan leaped backward, landing on the boulder behind him. The spirit crashed into the stone, its form dispersing briefly before pulling itself back together.
He needed to end this quickly. The cold was sapping his strength, and the spirits seemed to draw power from the frozen landscape around them. Kaelan closed his eyes for a heartbeat, reaching deeper into his Essence reserves.
The Ghostsense awakened.
Suddenly, he could feel everything—the spirits' positions, their movements, even their intentions. The first spirit was reforming behind him, gathering itself for another attack. The second was circling to his right, moving with predatory patience. The third was directly below, coiled like a spring.
Kaelan opened his eyes and smiled grimly. Now he could see the pattern.
He jumped down from the boulder, landing in a crouch just as the third spirit lunged upward. His sword swept in a perfect arc, the Ironveil-coated blade cutting through the creature's neck. This time, instead of dispersing, the spirit let out a keening wail and crumbled to ice crystals.
The first spirit attacked from behind, but Kaelan had seen it coming. He spun on his heel, bringing his sword up in a rising cut that caught the creature mid-leap. The blade carved through its chest, and the spirit exploded into a shower of blue sparks that faded instantly in the cold air.
The last spirit hesitated, its glowing eyes fixed on Kaelan's blade. It could sense the power radiating from him now, the focused intent of a knight who had mastered his craft. For a moment, the valley was silent except for the wind.
Then the spirit turned and fled, its form dissolving into mist that streamed away through the rocks.
Kaelan let it go. His orders had been to drive the spirits away from the settlements, not to hunt them to extinction. Let this one carry word to its pack. Let them know that the paths to the villages were guarded.
He wiped his blade clean on his cloak and sheathed it, feeling the Essence slowly ebb from his body. The power always left him feeling slightly hollow afterward, as if something vital had been drained away. It was the price of mastery—the knowledge that each use of his abilities took something from him that could never be fully replaced.
The wind picked up again, howling through the valley with renewed fury. Kaelan pulled his cloak tighter and began the long climb back toward the mountain pass. The nearest Icehold fortress was still two days' hard riding away, and he needed to report his success to the garrison commander.
As he climbed, he thought about the other knights in his order. The younger ones, the Bronze Initiates and Iron Fighters, always talked about glory and honor. They dreamed of advancing through the ranks, of someday becoming Gold Masters or even Platinum Vanguards. They saw the power as a gift, a blessing that set them apart from common soldiers.
Kaelan had thought the same way once. Before he'd realized that every victory came with a cost, every display of power left him a little more empty inside. He was a Silver Champion now, respected and feared. But the boy who had first picked up a sword in the training yards of his father's keep—that boy was gone, worn away by years of channeling forces that were never meant to flow through mortal flesh.
The ice beneath his boots crunched with each step, a steady rhythm that matched his breathing. Behind him, the valley was already disappearing into the mountain mists, but he could still feel the presence of the spirits watching from the shadows. They would be back. They always came back.
But for now, the villages were safe. The children could sleep without fear, and the merchants could travel the mountain roads without looking over their shoulders. That was what mattered. That was what justified the hollow feeling in his chest, the sense that something precious had been lost.
By the time he reached the mountain pass, the sun was beginning to set behind the peaks, painting the snow-covered landscape in shades of gold and crimson. In the distance, he could see the smoke rising from the chimneys of Ironhold Fortress, a welcome sight after days in the wilderness.
Tomorrow, he would write his report. The wolf-spirits had been driven back into the deep mountains, and the frontier was secure for another season. The garrison commander would be pleased, and word would be sent south to the Imperial City of Jotunheol, where courtiers would nod approvingly at news of the northern borders being kept safe.
But tonight, Kaelan would sit by the fire in the fortress common room and try not to think about the cost of victory and would rather just drink the harsh northern ale and listen to the younger knights tell stories of their own battles, and he would remember what it felt like to believe that power was a gift instead of a burden.
The wind carried rumors from the valleys below, rumors of unrest in the south, of political maneuvering in the Imperial Court. But those were problems for other men to solve. Kaelan Ironwright was a knight of the northern borders, and his duty was to the ice and stone of Khaligar.
He pulled his cloak tighter and continued his journey toward the fortress, leaving the frozen battlefield behind him in the gathering darkness.