Written by: Chris Chret © 2026
The cold air of Ironpeak Hold cut like a knife.
On the wide courtyard beneath the fortress, the snow was trampled into mud and ice. The elite knights of Ironpeak trained without pause — armor crashing against armor, spears colliding, swords cutting through the air. Above them stood their lord.
Gregoryan Frostborne.
Called by the people the White Beast, he was a tall, broad man, with a gaze that forgave no mistakes. His strikes were precise, powerful, deadly — though today they were restrained. Training, not massacre.
"Faster!" he shouted.
"Ironpeak did not survive through weakness!"
At that moment, the fortress gates opened.
A horse stopped abruptly. A female figure jumped from the saddle in front of everyone.
"Brother!"
Gregoryan turned — and for the first time that day, his face softened.
"Astrid…"
She ran to him and hugged him tightly. The white fur on his armor shifted beneath her hands.
"You defended Ironpeak," she said with a smile. "The capital speaks of nothing else."
"You came all this way just to congratulate me?" he asked.
"And for something more."
Without waiting for an answer, Astrid took her bow and stepped onto the line. The arrows flew. Farther than all the others. Each one — in the center.
The knights looked at one another.
"Boring," she said and set the bow aside.
She turned toward the close-combat fighters and drew her short sword.
"Anyone?"
No one moved.
"She's a woman…" someone whispered.
Gregoryan stepped forward.
"I will."
In her eyes there was no doubt — only hunger for a challenge.
They brought him the spear.
The fight began.
Astrid was fast, flexible, skilled. But Gregoryan was faster. Stronger. Smarter. The spear was not meant for close combat — and that was his weakness.
With one strike of the shaft, he hit her in the legs. She fell to her knees. The tip of the spear stopped at her neck.
Victory.
But then — a sharp touch.
Astrid touched his stomach with the short sword.
He stayed silent for a moment.
Then he smiled.
"Good fight," he said and offered her his hand. "There is someone to guard me when I sit on the throne."
Far from Ironpeak…
A cabin.
Isolated, in the middle of a dark forest, surrounded by snow and rocks.
Inside, on an old wooden bed, lay Alaric Thornewood.
His body was broken, the pain waking him with every breath. He did not know where he was. He did not remember how he got there.
He remembered.
The jump from the walls.
The fall.
The darkness.
The door opened.
A huge man entered.
His arms were like a bear's. His chest wide. His neck thick. His body covered in old scars and deep claw marks. Long black hair. In his hands — two axes. Dressed in white fur.
Alaric tensed.
"Peace," the man said roughly. "I found you fallen. You didn't wake for a week."
"Who… are you?" Alaric asked.
"Not important."
He handed him water.
Without a word, the man set the table.
He placed a rough wooden bowl with food, bread cut into thick pieces, and a bowl of water. He pushed the stool toward Alaric with his foot.
"Eat."
Alaric tried to stand. Pain shot through his body like fire. His knees trembled, his hands pressed against the bed. With heavy steps, dragging one leg, he reached the table and sat down.
He ate as if he had not seen food in days. His hands shook, he swallowed the bites without chewing. His body demanded life.
While eating, his gaze fell through the small window.
Outside — nothing.
Only snow. Forests. Rocks. Wasteland.
No road. No chimney smoke. No sign of civilization.
"This place… is abandoned," he said quietly. "Why are you alone here?"
The man stopped beside the fire. He was silent for a few moments.
"I like it here," he finally said. "Alone."
Something in the tone told Alaric not to ask more. He continued eating. A long recovery awaited him, and this man — no matter how wild — was taking care of him.
The next morning, Alaric woke up alone.
He slowly undressed to look at his body. It was covered in bruises. Deep wounds. Old and new. Some already roughly stitched.
He dressed again and, though he shouldn't have, curiosity led him outside.
The cold cut him.
Snow was piled up to his ankles. Around the cabin — forest and rocks. Empty. Nothing alive.
Dragging his leg, he took a few steps… and then he saw them.
Tracks.
Deep scratches in the snow.
Claws.
The tracks led into the forest.
At that moment — the sound of branches.
The man emerged from the forest.
On his back he carried chopped logs, loaded as if they weighed nothing. He set them down beside the cabin, where more were already stacked.
Alaric watched him carefully.
"Why do you avoid people?" he asked. "Why don't you talk?"
The man stopped. His face tightened.
"Boy," he said nervously, "just because I saved you doesn't mean we have to talk. I don't owe you explanations. Mind your own business. Recover. Then leave."
Alaric fell silent. He turned and went back into the cabin, frowning.
Night fell.
The fire burned. The man threw more wood inside, the flames rose.
Then he went outside.
Next to the cabin was a small stable. Inside — sheep. He milked them and headed back toward the cabin.
And then he saw them.
Men. Horses.
About ten.
By their armor they were recognizable — knights of Skeldor.
"We're looking for a boy," they said. "Has anyone been seen here this week?"
"No," the man replied coldly. "I haven't seen a person for years."
"He's a prisoner," they said. "Dangerous."
The man looked at them indifferently.
"In these woods there are more dangerous things than one boy. He's surely not alive."
Their eyes fell on the cups he was holding.
"You live alone here?" one asked.
"Alone."
They surrounded him.
"Kneel."
At that moment — a knock from the cabin.
Two knights went inside to check.
Empty.
And then —
an axe flew out of the darkness.
One knight fell without a sound.
The others were confused.
The man with the cups struck the knight beside him straight in the face — bones cracked. He took the sword from him and stabbed another who rushed forward.
Alaric froze. This was not a fight — this was death, fast and silent. He realized he had just seen a life extinguished in an instant.
At that moment — Alaric jumped from behind them.
He struck one with an axe in the face.
He struck the other between the legs — he fell screaming.
The huge man grabbed one knight by the head, lifted him off the ground and crushed it. He threw the body toward the others running at Alaric.
They fell.
Alaric reacted immediately.
One — head crushed with the axe.
Another — throat cut in a sprint.
The last two rushed toward the man.
Alaric threw the axe — it struck one in the back.
The large man pulled the axe from his body and with one swing tore the head off the last one. Even though his back was bleeding, he did not stop — he grabbed the head and twisted it upside down.
Silence.
A chill ran down Alaric's spine. This was not a man who survived — this was a man who hunted.
They survived the attack.
Alaric returned to the cabin and lay down, exhausted.
He survived. But something in him stayed there, in the snow.
The man took the bodies. He carried them deep into the forest. He hid them in crevices, without traces. He took the horses as well.
When he returned — the snow had already covered everything.
No traces of blood.
No traces of a fight.
Only the cabin.
And two shadows inside it.
End of Chapter 11