After days on the road, they entered the forest—the designated battle zone.
It wasn't long before a giant blocked the path. The beast charged at the sight of humans, each step shaking the earth.
Poul snapped out of his thoughts at the thunderous footfalls. He sprinted to the front, ice coalescing into a blade in his right hand. He lunged, slashing horizontally across the giant's midsection.
Mid-motion, he let the sword dissolve and fired a jagged ice spike that embedded in the giant's ragged tunic. Closing the gap in an instant, he reformed the blade in his left hand and drove it straight into the creature's stomach.
Blood coated his gloves and flecked his face. Poul stared blankly as the giant slumped, ragged breaths escaping its throat. The eyes—wide, almost luminous—locked on his. Not fear. Not hatred. Something like relief. Acceptance.
Poul finished it with a twist of the blade.
The body collapsed. Soldiers murmured in awe; others stared in stunned silence at the ease of it.
Poul stepped over the mud and gore, mind elsewhere.
Why did it look... content?
Blood dripped from the fading ice sword. He wiped it absently on his cloak and pressed forward, ignoring the scattered applause.
They advanced to the front lines, where the real slaughter unfolded.
Days blurred into kills. Giants fell by the dozen. Poul's tally climbed without pause.
After felling two more—bodies riddled with frozen punctures—he paused beside the last corpse. A faint birdsong cut through the din, clear and incongruous.
He let the sword melt away. Turned. Headed back to camp.
The trees loomed unevenly, ancient and scarred. His left hand tingled—cold spreading beneath the skin, veins faintly blue beneath the bloodstains. He clenched it.
Every time I draw on this power... He exhaled, tasting clean air laced with iron. Blessing. Or curse.
In camp, hammers rang and voices overlapped. Poul entered his tent, sank onto the cot, and pressed a palm to his forehead.
How are Jay, Luis, Mary, Kyrai? It's been too long.
He lay back, staring at the reddish canvas ceiling. A small smile tugged at his lips.
When I return, I'll bring Jay an entire collection of Lot. He'll lose his mind over it.
Night fell. Soldiers ate around bonfires, plates clattering. Poul stood watch, scanning the moonlit dark.
Moonlight helps me see. It helps them too.
He stretched, jumped lightly to shake off fatigue. A yawn escaped despite himself.
Damn it. Sleep is winning.
He sat again, fighting the heaviness. An hour passed. His eyelids drooped. He surrendered.
In the dream, he sat on the same log by the fire, back turned to the camp, guarding nothing.
"—Just like years ago... alone again."
A masculine voice, calm and close.
Poul turned. A figure stood there—entirely blue, human-faced, dressed in formal attire.
He rose, tense.
The figure raised both hands. "Easy. I'm no enemy. I'm your greatest ally."
Poul arched a brow. "What?"
Then it clicked. "You're my elemental spirit?"
"Correct." The being—Glaciei—fixed him with a cold stare. "You actually had to think about it? How dense are you?"
Poul flipped him off.
Glaciei sighed, hand to forehead. "Deep breath, Glaciei. He's just ignorant."
Poul ignored him, sat back down, resumed his pointless vigil.
Glaciei watched. "You're an idiot."
"Why?"
"You fell asleep. What exactly are you guarding now?"
"Nothing."
"Then why keep at it?"
Poul met his gaze. "Even if it's nothing, why stop?"
Silence stretched, blue-tinged and windless.
Glaciei chuckled. "Fair."
Poul hesitated. "When I use the power... my hand—"
"Because you're not fully elemental," Glaciei cut in, wiping imaginary tears of laughter. "Our time's up. Bye."
He vanished, waving casually.
"Wait—Glaciei—"
A hand shook him. "Captain! Wake up. My shift."
Poul blinked awake. The soldier clicked his tongue. "Rock-solid sleeper."
Poul gripped the man's shoulder. "Thanks for the wake-up."
He offered a genuine nod and walked toward his tent.
Halfway there, pain lanced through his skull. Vision blurred. Knees buckled. Something green brushed his cheek—grass.
His back burned, fire racing along his spine.
What the—?
He tried to shout. No sound came.
Darkness closed in. He fought it, teeth gritted. Don't close. Don't—
His head hit the ground.
Fog swallowed him. A child's voice echoed, growing louder.
The mist parted. Jay lay there—clothes charred, skin blistered, groaning.
"Father... help me. Don't leave me." Tears cut tracks through soot. "Please... stay."
Poul's face drained of color. He ran, lungs burning. "JAY!"
He dropped beside the boy, hands trembling as he gathered ash and bone.
Tears fell silently.
The sobs twisted into a low, broken laugh.
Arms encircled him from behind—gentle, pitying.
"Let it out," a woman's voice whispered. "This is just another nightmare. End it."
"But I failed... again."
She leaned close. "How will you avenge me if you break like this?"
Poul's heart stuttered. "Maria?"
"Until next time, Poul."
The ground cracked beneath him. White earth split. He fell into black.
He woke gasping, arm raised defensively. The tent was empty. Outside: shouts, mortar fire, the stench of gunpowder.
Poul grabbed his sword and stepped out.
Giants clashed with his men. Mortars boomed. Ice answered.
He leaped onto a shattered platform, arm extended. Spikes erupted from the ground, skewering one giant after another.
Mud-caked, clothes torn, ice creeping up his neck like frostbite veins, he advanced.
The last two giants remained. A spike from below impaled one. A mortar shell took the other's head.
The body fell, dust rising.
Poul laughed—low at first, then sharper. Blood streaked his face.
He walked through the smoke until stone rose before him: cracked, ancient, familiar.
"The Wall." His homeland.
Memories flashed—flames, screams, the day it all began.
The laugh deepened, edged with something unhinged.
He touched the stone. Ice spread from his palm, unbidden, cracking the surface further.
"This is where it started," he murmured.
"And where it ends."