CHAPTER 3 — WHEN THE MOUNTAIN BREATHES
The mountain exhaled before dawn.
It was not a sound most would recognize as breath. No wind rushed through the barracks, no sudden change in temperature announced it. Instead, the stone beneath Eirik's back tightened—just slightly—like something massive shifting its weight in sleep.
The tremor was faint.
Enough to wake him.
His eyes opened to darkness broken only by the brazier's dying glow. Ash had settled over the embers overnight, dulling the light to a weak, reddish smear that barely reached the nearest pallets. Breath fog hung low, clinging to the ground before thinning into nothing.
The barracks felt smaller.
Not physically—he knew the dimensions had not changed—but the air had thickened, heavy with something unspoken. Bodies lay closer together now, not by choice, but because fewer remained to fill the space.
Eirik lay still, listening.
The wind outside had changed direction. Instead of scraping along the walls, it pressed downward, forcing itself through every crack in the stone. Snow hissed faintly against the roof, piling unevenly. Somewhere above, ice shifted and cracked, the sound sharp and distant.
A trial day.
He felt it before anyone said the words.
Around him, others stirred. Not the restless tossing of exhaustion, but the careful, restrained movements of people who knew they were being measured even now. No one spoke. Even coughing was subdued, forced into elbows or swallowed entirely.
The boy who had cried the night before did not wake.
Eirik noticed because the space beside him felt colder than it should have.
The brazier guttered and went out.
Darkness closed in completely.
Then the door opened.
Cold air flooded the barracks, raw and biting, carrying with it the scent of snow and iron. Lantern light followed—three dull yellow orbs bobbing in the doorway, held by men wrapped in heavier furs than any Thrall had been given.
Their boots were clean.
That alone told Eirik everything he needed to know.
"Up," one of them said.
No iron rod this time. No shouting. The word carried authority simply by being spoken by someone who did not need to prove it.
They rose.
Slowly. Carefully.
Eirik pushed himself upright, joints protesting immediately. His muscles felt stiff, reluctant, like rope left too long in the cold. He rolled his shoulders once, easing the tightness without drawing attention.
The men with lanterns stepped inside.
They did not look at faces. They looked at posture. At balance. At whether hands shook when weight shifted. One paused briefly in front of a Thrall who swayed slightly as he stood.
A finger flicked out.
The Thrall stumbled backward, hit the wall, slid down, breath knocked from his lungs.
No one helped him.
"Outside," the man said.
The fallen Thrall was dragged out last, feet scraping uselessly against stone.
The yard was worse than the day before.
Snow had fallen steadily through the night, burying the ground beneath a fresh, uneven layer. The sky was low and dark, clouds pressing down like a lid. Wind curled along the mountain's face, funneling between structures and cutting through thin clothing with practiced cruelty.
Eirik stepped into it and felt his breath hitch despite his control.
This cold was different.
Sharper. More intentional.
They were lined up near the Hall's outer approach, where the stone path narrowed into a steep incline carved directly into the mountainside. Torches burned along the edges, their flames bending unnaturally toward the mountain rather than away from it.
That drew Eirik's attention.
Fire should not lean uphill.
At the top of the path stood a wide stone gate, open to reveal darkness beyond. Runes—old, worn, nearly eroded by time—were carved into the archway, their grooves filled with ice.
Eirik did not know what they meant.
But he could feel them.
A pressure settled across the yard, subtle but undeniable. It pressed against his skin, against his chest, against something deeper that had no name yet. The air felt denser near the gate, harder to draw into the lungs.
Some of the Thralls noticed it too.
One man rubbed his arms frantically, as if trying to warm himself. Another swallowed repeatedly, eyes darting toward the gate and then away.
No one spoke.
The overseer from the barracks stood off to the side, his iron rod absent today. Beside him were two others—taller, broader, their presence heavier. They wore no insignia, no symbols of rank, but the way everyone instinctively avoided meeting their gaze marked them clearly.
Eirik lowered his eyes.
Not in submission.
In acknowledgment.
One of the men stepped forward.
"The Utholdenhetsprøven," he said.
His voice carried easily across the yard, not raised, but firm enough to cut through wind and cold.
"This is not a test of strength."
Several Thralls stiffened at that.
"It is not a test of skill."
The man paused, letting the words sink in.
"It is a test of whether you can remain useful when the mountain decides you are not."
The wind gusted, sending snow skittering across the stone like a living thing.
"You will walk," the man continued, gesturing toward the gate. "You will climb. You will carry nothing but yourselves."
His gaze swept the line.
"You will not be helped."
The silence that followed was heavier than any shout.
"If you fall," he added, "do not get up."
A murmur rippled through the line despite everyone's efforts to suppress it.
Eirik felt his heartbeat steady.
Not slow.
Steady.
The gate was opened fully.
Darkness yawned beyond it, swallowing torchlight almost immediately. Stone steps cut upward into the mountain, narrow and uneven, their edges softened by centuries of wear. Frost clung to every surface, making footing treacherous.
The pressure intensified as they approached.
Eirik stepped through the gate and felt it settle fully over him, like a weight pressing down on his shoulders. Not crushing. Testing.
The mountain did not care how strong you were.
It cared how long you could continue.
They climbed.
At first, the steps were manageable. Steep, but consistent. Eirik kept his pace measured, neither rushing nor lagging. He watched the Thralls ahead of him, noting who leaned too heavily on the stone walls, who breathed too fast, who wasted energy with every step.
Within minutes, the path narrowed.
The steps grew irregular, some shallow, some unexpectedly high. Ice glazed the stone in thin, nearly invisible sheets. The air grew colder, thinner.
The pressure increased.
Eirik felt it most in his chest. Each breath required more effort, as if the air resisted being drawn in. His muscles began to ache—not sharply, but deeply, a persistent burn that spread slowly.
The first Thrall fell.
He slipped on a patch of ice, his foot sliding out from under him. He hit the steps hard, shoulder cracking against stone. He cried out instinctively, the sound echoing briefly before being swallowed by the mountain.
He tried to stand.
The pressure pressed harder.
His limbs shook violently. His breath came in gasps, shallow and panicked.
He collapsed again.
No one stopped.
They stepped around him.
Eirik watched as the man reached out weakly, fingers scraping against stone, leaving faint streaks of blood where skin tore.
The pressure did not relent.
The man went still.
They climbed past him.
The path curved sharply to the left, then right, cutting back on itself in tight turns. Torches were set into the walls at intervals, their flames flickering low, casting long shadows that made the steps seem to shift underfoot.
Sweat soaked Eirik's clothes despite the cold. It chilled quickly, clinging to his skin, threatening to steal heat faster than his body could produce it. He adjusted his breathing, inhaling through his nose, exhaling slowly through parted lips.
He did not look back.
He did not look ahead too far.
He focused on the next step.
And the next.
A Thrall ahead of him began to sob.
Quietly at first, then louder as panic crept in. His steps grew uneven, his breathing erratic. He clutched at the wall, nails scraping stone.
The pressure spiked.
Eirik felt it like a sudden tightening around his ribs.
The sobbing Thrall screamed.
Then fell backward.
He tumbled down several steps before coming to rest against the wall, limbs twisted at an unnatural angle. He did not move again.
No one spoke.
The climb continued.
Time lost meaning.
Eirik could not say how long they had been climbing—only that his muscles burned constantly now, every movement an effort. His vision narrowed slightly, the edges darkening when he shifted too quickly.
He adjusted.
Shorter steps.
Slightly slower pace.
He watched the man ahead of him—a broad-shouldered Thrall who had rushed early, confident in his strength. Now his movements were jerky, his breaths ragged. Sweat poured down his face, freezing in his beard.
He stumbled.
Caught himself.
Stumbled again.
The pressure surged.
Eirik felt it, even though it was not directed at him.
The man tried to push forward through it.
His knees buckled.
He fell forward this time, hitting the steps face-first. Blood smeared across the stone.
He did not scream.
That, Eirik noted, was the last thing he did right.
The path widened briefly, opening into a small plateau carved into the mountain's interior. A flat expanse of stone awaited them, its surface etched with faint, ancient lines that pulsed weakly under the frost.
Those who reached it collapsed almost immediately.
Some crawled forward on hands and knees before giving up entirely, bodies slumping against the stone.
Eirik stepped onto the plateau and felt the pressure peak.
It pressed down hard enough to force his knees to bend.
He stopped.
Not because he had to.
Because he chose to.
He stood there, breathing steadily, letting the pressure wash over him. He did not resist it. He did not push against it.
He let it exist.
The pressure shifted.
Not lessening.
But changing.
Like water flowing around a stone instead of crashing against it.
Eirik took another step.
Then another.
At the far end of the plateau, a narrow passage sloped upward again, darker than before. Fewer Thralls attempted it. Most lay where they had fallen, chests rising weakly, eyes unfocused.
A man crawled after Eirik, fingers digging into the stone.
"Wait," he rasped.
Eirik did not turn.
The mountain did not care.
He entered the passage.
It was colder here.
The walls closed in, stone rough and wet, condensation freezing into jagged patterns. The air felt thin enough to slice. Each breath burned.
His legs shook.
His arms felt heavy, as if weighted.
The pressure pressed inward now, not down.
Testing restraint.
Testing control.
Eirik slowed further.
He counted breaths.
One.
Two.
Three.
His vision dimmed briefly.
He steadied it.
At the end of the passage, light appeared.
Gray. Dull. Real.
He stepped out.
The world opened.
They stood high above the Hall grounds now, the mountain falling away sharply behind them. Wind tore across the exposed ledge, roaring loud enough to drown out all other sound. Snow whipped sideways, stinging exposed skin.
Only a handful of Thralls stood there.
Fewer than ten.
Eirik counted eight besides himself.
The man who had announced the trial stood at the edge of the ledge, his cloak snapping violently in the wind. He turned as they emerged, eyes sharp.
He looked at them.
Then back toward the passage.
Minutes passed.
No one else came.
The man nodded once.
"That's enough," he said.
The pressure vanished.
Not gradually.
Instantly.
Eirik staggered slightly as the sudden absence threw off his balance. He adjusted quickly, planting his feet firmly against the stone.
Below them, the Hall looked small.
Insignificant.
The mountain loomed above, endless and uncaring.
The man's gaze lingered on Eirik for a fraction of a second longer than the others.
Not with approval.
With interest.
"Rest," he said.
And for the first time since arriving at the Hall, Eirik allowed himself to sit.
The wind screamed around them.
And the mountain, having taken its due, fell silent.