Years passed in the mountain stronghold of Frostfall.
The snows came and went, but for Zank, time felt like a long winter that never quite thawed.
Brynja raised him as one of her own. She taught him to fight with axe and shield, to fear no storm, and to stand tall before any god. Yet even she could not banish the shadow that followed him.
When he was ten, the clan children stopped playing near him. They said his eyes saw ghosts. When he was twelve, his shadow moved when he stood still. And when he was fourteen… he learned the truth.
It began as an accident.
Zank had been helping stack firewood with Torven, one of the younger warriors. The man laughed as he hefted a log over his shoulder.
"You'll be as strong as a bear soon, lad," Torven said. "Maybe stronger. Don't hide those hands—use 'em."
Zank smiled faintly, pulling at the leather wrappings that always covered his fingers. He didn't like the way the cold air seemed to bend around his skin. But he wanted to belong. To be normal.
"Alright," he said, unwrapping them.
When Torven reached out to clasp his hand, their palms met for only a heartbeat.
Then Torven's laughter stopped.
His eyes widened—glass-white and empty.
The wood fell from his grip.
He crumpled to the ground without a sound.
The camp froze.
Zank staggered back, his breath sharp in his chest. "I—I didn't—"
But when he looked down, his hand shimmered faintly, a mist like cold smoke rising from his skin.
Brynja was the first to move. She knelt beside Torven, pressed two fingers to his throat, then looked up at Zank with something between terror and sorrow.
"Cover your hands," she whispered. "Now."
That night, she found him sitting alone in the snow outside the hall. The moon hung low, blood-bright.
"Is it true?" he asked quietly. "That I'm not… human?"
Brynja hesitated, then sat beside him. "You're human enough to feel pain, and that's what matters most. But yes—something old runs in your blood. Something that doesn't belong in this world."
Zank stared at his gloved hands. "Then I shouldn't be here."
"Listen to me." She gripped his shoulder, firm and fierce. "The clan fears you, but they also owe you their lives. The Reaper came for you once. If he does again, he'll have to face Frostfall steel first."
Zank turned toward her. "And if he comes for you?"
She smiled sadly. "Then I'll die with honor."
The wind carried her words away, leaving only the sound of the mountains breathing.
That night, as Zank stared into the flames, he swore never to touch another living soul again.
But far beyond Frostfall's peaks, in the shadows between realms, the Reaper watched — patient as ever — and whispered:
"Every promise to the living is a debt to the dead."