Chapter 35 – In the Frozen Mountains
[STEVE – FROZEN MOUNTAINS, AFTERNOON]
The wind cut like blades.
It wasn't a metaphor. Steve felt each gust slicing through the layers of clothing, penetrating his skin, reaching his bones with a cold that should not have been possible. The snow fell so densely he could barely see three meters ahead — only endless white swirling in violent spirals, burying everything beneath a mantle that grew thicker by the second.
His feet sank into the snow up to his knees with every step. The muscles in his legs burned from the constant effort of lifting, advancing, sinking again. His hands were numb even inside the thick gloves he had bought in the last town before they began the ascent.
His face was wrapped in an improvised scarf, but even so, icy air slipped through the gaps, burning his lungs with every ragged breath.
How many hours have we been walking like this?
Three? Four?
I've lost track.
Ahead, Dagon fought against the storm with silent determination. The dragon in human form — tall, muscular, black hair whipping violently in the wind — advanced with visible difficulty. Even he, an ancient creature of incomprehensible power, was being tested by the mountain's fury.
Suddenly, Dagon stopped.
He turned, shouting to be heard over the constant howl of the wind:
— IF WE KEEP WALKING IN THIS STORM, WE'LL END UP DEAD FROM IT!
Steve nodded in agreement — he didn't have the strength to shout back.
— WE NEED TO FIND SHELTER! — Dagon continued, scanning the surroundings desperately. — WAIT UNTIL THE STORM PASSES!
Steve nodded again, his breath coming out in thick clouds that the wind instantly carried away.
Then, instinctively, he looked back.
And froze.
Not from the cold. From absolute disbelief.
Keara and Jelim were walking a few meters behind — but completely free from the storm.
Around them, an invisible barrier — Steve could only perceive it by the way the snow and wind were repelled, forming a perfect bubble of calm. Snow fell normally outside the barrier, but inside… nothing. Calm air. Comfortable temperature.
The two of them were casually talking, as if they were on a pleasant spring stroll.
Keara even laughed at something Jelim had said.
Steve's face twisted — a mixture of shock, indignation, and total disbelief.
You've got to be kidding me.
THIS WHOLE TIME?!
He tried to shout, but his voice came out hoarse, broken by the cold. He waved frantically, pointing at the barrier, making desperate gestures of "let me in, for the love of everything."
Jelim — wearing a smooth white mask that completely covered her face, with no expression, no visible eyes — slowly turned her head in his direction.
Then, deliberately, she raised her hand.
And made a threatening gesture — finger raised, a motion of "don't even think about it," like a mother scolding a child trying to steal a cookie.
The mask had no expression. But Steve felt the message clearly:
"Don't even try."
Steve opened his mouth to protest but sneezed violently — three times in a row — his entire body shuddering.
I'm catching a cold.
Because of those two…
Dagon, who had also looked back and seen the scene, simply shook his head with a mix of envy and resignation.
— Women… — he muttered to himself.
But then his eyes caught something to the right — a dark opening in the rocky face of the mountain, partially hidden by accumulated snow.
— LOOK! — he shouted, pointing. — OVER THERE! A CAVE!
Steve forced his half-frozen eyes to focus in the indicated direction. He could make out the opening — small, but definitely real.
Shelter.
Finally.
Dagon was already moving, carving a path through the deep snow with brute force. Steve followed, legs heavy as lead, each step a battle against a body that just wanted to collapse and sleep right there.
No. Keep going. Almost there.
Keara and Jelim followed — still inside their comfortable barrier, of course.
---
The cave was larger inside than it appeared from the outside.
The ceiling rose three meters high, dripping slightly where internal warmth melted snow that seeped through cracks. The rock walls were smooth in some places, rough in others, with strange formations that almost seemed… carved? But they were probably just natural erosion.
The floor was covered in windblown snow, but deeper inside — protected from the entrance — it was relatively dry.
Dagon immediately began gathering dry branches he found scattered around (remnants of previous camps? Or animals that had sought shelter?) and piled them in the center of the dry area.
Steve collapsed against the wall, removing the frozen scarf and revealing a face reddened by the cold, nose running, lips cracked.
Keara entered gracefully, as if she had just come from a relaxing walk. Jelim followed in silence — the white mask revealing absolutely nothing.
— Could you… — Steve began, voice hoarse and broken — …turn off that ridiculous barrier now that we're… — he sneezed violently — …inside?
Jelim tilted her head slightly. The barrier shimmered once and disappeared.
Dagon crouched over the pile of branches, focused. He took a deep breath — and blew.
Not normal air. Flames.
Golden-hot fire burst from his mouth in a controlled jet, enveloping the branches instantly. The wood caught easily, crackling loudly, filling the cave with dancing light and blessed warmth.
Steve practically crawled toward the fire, extending his trembling hands toward the heat.
The relief was almost painful — blood returning to numb fingers, intense tingling spreading through his hands.
— Much better — he murmured, closing his eyes.
Dagon sat on the other side of the fire, warming his hands as well, even being a dragon (apparently even dragons feel cold in absurd storms).
— I knew — he began, looking at the flames — that the Frozen Mountains had great snowstorms. But I didn't know they were… — he paused, searching for the word — …like that.
He looked at Steve with something close to genuine concern:
— Are you alright, boy?
Steve nodded, wiping his nose with his sleeve:
— I'll be fine. Just… — he sneezed again — …need to rest.
Dagon nodded:
— We'll spend the night here. Wait for the storm to pass completely. Tomorrow, if the weather allows, we continue.
Everyone silently agreed.
Keara was already arranging her belongings, separating a corner of the cave to sleep. Jelim remained seated near the entrance — motionless like a statue, mask turned outward, as if watching something invisible.
Steve wrapped himself in the blanket from his backpack, lying down near the fire, feeling the heat finally penetrating the layers of accumulated cold.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow we continue.
We're close. I can feel it.
The Fragment feels it too.
Something is waiting for me in these mountains.
Something important.
He closed his eyes, letting exhaustion take him.
His last thought before sleep was of Any — her face smiling, saying she would wait.
I'll be back soon. I promise.
---
[STEVE – FROZEN MOUNTAINS, NEXT MORNING – 169 DAYS REMAINING]
The sun rose bright over the snow-covered mountains.
The storm had passed during the night, leaving the world transformed — fresh snow covering everything in pristine white that reflected the sunlight with almost blinding intensity.
The air was cold but calm. No wind. No falling snow. Only vast silence occasionally broken by the distant sound of snow sliding down a steep slope.
Steve woke feeling sore but functional. His nose was still running slightly, but the cold had not worsened overnight.
Small victories.
They left the cave after completely extinguishing the fire (Dagon insisted — "never leave a fire burning in a closed cave, boy, learn that").
They descended the slope — more carefully now, with fresh snow making everything slippery — until they spotted something unexpected.
A village.
Small. Perhaps twenty wooden houses clustered in a sheltered valley between two mountains. Smoke rising from chimneys. Distant sounds of life — voices, tools striking, animals.
And there, in an open field near the first houses, children were playing in the snow.
Six or seven of them — ages ranging from five to twelve, apparently — running, laughing, throwing snowballs at each other, building improvised forts.
One of them — a boy of perhaps eight, dark blond hair sticking out from under a wool cap — kicked an old leather ball with exaggerated force.
The ball flew high, passed over the other children, and rolled down the slope, stopping far from the group.
— I'LL GET IT! — a shrill voice shouted.
A small girl — no more than five, cheeks red from the cold, huge smile — ran after the ball, stumbling in the snow but getting up laughing.
She reached where the ball had stopped, crouched to grab it—
—and froze.
The ball was at the feet of someone.
The girl slowly lifted her gaze.
And saw Jelim's white mask staring directly at her.
Smooth. No eyes. No mouth. No human expression.
Just empty white tilted slightly downward, observing the child in absolute silence.
For three seconds, no one moved.
Then the girl screamed — a sharp sound of pure terror — dropped the ball and ran back toward the village as fast as her short legs allowed, stumbling twice but immediately getting up, screaming:
— MONSTER! MONSTER!
The other children looked. Saw Jelim. And all of them ran too, scattering toward the nearest houses, shouting for their parents.
An awkward silence fell over the group.
Dagon approached Jelim, picked up the abandoned ball from the snow, and sighed deeply:
— Jelim… — he began with forced patience — …I've told you to tone down that frightening aura of yours.
Jelim slowly turned the mask toward him.
Then spoke — her voice muffled through the mask, but clearly irritated:
— Who are you calling frightening girl?
The tone was dangerous.
Dagon involuntarily stepped back half a step, laughing nervously:
— I… was joking with you, Jelim! — he raised his hands in a placating gesture. — Try not to be too… uh… cold about the situation?
Jelim didn't answer. She simply turned and began walking toward the village with deliberate steps.
Steve, who had watched the entire scene with a mixture of amusement and pity for the terrified child, approached Dagon:
— Pass me the ball, please?
Dagon looked at him, then at the worn leather ball, and smiled slightly:
— Catch, boy.
He kicked the ball — not hard, but with perfect precision.
Steve received it with his chest, cushioning it naturally, then held it in his hands and looked toward where the children had run.
Some were still watching from afar — hiding behind parents or corners of houses, childish curiosity overcoming initial fear.
Steve waved, smiling.
Then gently rolled the ball back toward them.
The blond boy hesitated. Looked at his parents. Then slowly stepped out and picked up the ball.
Steve waved again, making the universal gesture of "let's play?"
The boy smiled. Then shouted to his friends. And, one by one, the children returned — still casting nervous glances toward Jelim (who was already farther away), but relaxing at the sight of Steve.
Soon they were all playing — the ball flying back and forth, laughter filling the cold air.
Jelim watched from afar and muttered — so low only Keara heard:
— Men…
But Keara, who had approached silently, smiled with genuine tenderness:
— Isn't it lovely to see him having fun like this? — she observed Steve laughing as he tried to steal the ball from three children at once. — After that nightmare we had days ago…
Jelim turned the mask toward her:
— In this world, killing is normal.
The sentence came without emotion. Just a stated fact.
Then Jelim walked away toward the center of the village in silence.
Keara remained standing, her smile fading slightly.
She's not wrong.
But that doesn't make it easier to accept.
---
Dagon approached Steve, who was still playing with the children — now teaching one of the younger ones how to kick with the inside of the foot.
— Boy! — he called, waving. — Stay there playing with these brats. We're going to talk to the village leaders.
Steve looked up, out of breath but smiling:
— I'll keep playing a bit longer then! Do what you need!
He waved at the children:
— First to score three goals wins!
The children's excited shouts were answer enough.
Dagon, Jelim, and Keara headed toward the center of the village — passing simple but well-kept wooden houses, all with steep roofs so snow would slide off without accumulating.
People watched them — curious, cautious, but not hostile. Some waved. Others simply observed in silence.
They found a middle-aged woman carrying buckets of water from the communal well.
Dagon approached respectfully:
— Excuse me, ma'am. Could you tell me where we can find the village chief?
The woman stopped, evaluating them with experienced eyes that had seen much in life.
— Is it for good? — she asked directly.
— Yes, ma'am — Dagon answered sincerely. — We only want information. Nothing more.
The woman studied him for a few more seconds. Then nodded, pointing to a larger house in the center of the village — distinguishable by a simple flag fluttering on the roof.
— There. Council house. Knock before entering.
— Thank you — Dagon said, bowing slightly.
They followed the indicated direction, climbing a small rise until they stood before the house.
Two guards were stationed at the entrance — older men, armed with simple spears but carefully maintained. They did not look like professional soldiers — more likely villagers taking protection shifts.
Dagon approached:
— Good morning. We would like to speak with the village chief, if possible.
The guards exchanged glances. Then one nodded:
— Wait here.
He entered. Muffled voices came from inside. Then the guard returned:
— You may enter. But leave your weapons here.
Dagon carried no visible weapons (he was the weapon). Keara reluctantly left her bow and quiver leaning against the outer wall. Jelim… no one knew what weapons she carried, but she made no move to disarm.
The guards did not insist.
They entered.
---
The interior was simple but functional.
A wide wooden table in the center, maps spread across it. Chairs around. A lit fireplace warming the room. The smell of burning wood and herbal tea.
And behind the table, seated, was the village chief.
An old man — easily over seventy — but with sharp eyes that still missed nothing. Long white beard, well kept. Knotted but steady hands resting on the table.
He wore simple but clean clothes — fur coat over thick wool shirt.
He studied the visitors in silence before speaking:
— What brings you to our village, travelers?
His voice was deep, carrying the natural authority of one who had led a community for decades.
Dagon stepped forward, deciding to go straight to the point:
— We want to know about the Nessiras.
The silence that followed was heavy.
The old man's expression changed instantly — relaxed turned tense, sharp eyes became dangerous.
He made a brusque gesture to the guards:
— Close the door.
The guards obeyed immediately. The door shut with a definitive sound. The lock slid into place.
The old man slowly stood, placing his hands on the table, leaning forward with an intensity that made even Dagon reconsider whether the question had been a good idea:
— I will tell you — he said, voice low, controlled, but heavy — …but on one condition.
Dramatic pause.
His eyes traveled over each face — Dagon, Keara, Jelim (lingering slightly longer on the mask, as if trying to read what lay beneath).
Then he continued:
— First tell me… why you want to know about them. And do not lie. I have lived long enough to recognize a lie when I hear one.
Dagon exchanged a quick look with Keara.
How much do we tell?
All of it? Part? Nothing?
Keara nodded slightly — trusting his judgment.
Dagon took a deep breath and chose the truth:
— Because we travel with someone who carries one. A Nessira. Inside him.
The old man's eyes widened.
— A Fragment? — he whispered, voice coming out hoarse with genuine shock.
— Yes — Dagon confirmed. — And we need to understand what that means. What they truly are. What they want.
The old man sank back into his chair, suddenly seeming to have aged ten more years.
He remained silent for a long time, staring at his own hands, processing.
Finally, he looked up:
— Then… — he began, his voice carrying something close to fear mixed with reverence — …a bearer has reached the Frozen Mountains.
Pause.
— She said it would happen. But I did not think it would be in my lifetime.
Keara frowned:
— She? Who?
The old man did not answer immediately. He stood again, went to a shelf, took an old bottle and three cups, filling them with a dark amber liquid.
He offered them to the visitors. Dagon accepted. Keara too. Jelim merely watched.
The old man drank his in one gulp, then slammed the empty cup onto the table:
— Very well. I will tell you what I know. But afterward… — he looked directly at Dagon — …you will do something for me. For this village.
— What? — Dagon asked cautiously.
The old man smiled — not happy, but weary:
— You will take the bearer to Her. The Guardian of the Mountains. Because if he carries a Fragment… then the time has finally come.
Heavy pause.
— And if the time has come… — his voice lowered, almost a whisper — …then the ancient war is about to begin again.
---
[Outside the house, Steve was still playing with the children]
He did not know that inside that simple house, the destiny that had brought him there was being revealed.
He did not know that the "Guardian of the Mountains" awaited him.
He did not know that an "ancient war" was about to awaken.
He simply laughed, kicking the ball toward a small boy who shouted with joy after scoring a goal.
Just a moment of peace.
Before the storm that would come.
---
[LOCATION: VILLAGE IN THE FROZEN MOUNTAINS]
[NEXT CHAPTER: ECHOES OF THE DUNGEON]