CHAPTER 4 — WHAT SURVIVES IS NOT FORGIVEN
The wind did not stop screaming just because the trial ended.
It tore across the exposed ledge with the same indifferent violence as before, ripping snow from the stone and hurling it into the void below. Eirik sat with his back against the mountain wall, knees drawn slightly inward, conserving heat where he could. The stone behind him was colder here, stripped bare by altitude and exposure, but it offered stability.
Eight others shared the ledge with him.
They did not sit close.
Not because of space, but because of instinct.
Each of them had learned something on the climb—about themselves, about the mountain, about the cost of being near weakness. Now, even in rest, they held distance as if it were a resource that could be stolen.
The man who had overseen the trial stood at the edge, unmoving. His cloak snapped and twisted in the wind, but his posture remained unchanged, feet planted wide, weight balanced as if the mountain itself had shaped him that way.
Below, clouds drifted slowly past the ledge, thick and low. Occasionally, the wind tore a gap in them, revealing a dizzying drop—stone, snow, nothing, then more stone far below. The Hall was no longer visible.
Eirik followed the movement of the clouds with his eyes.
No vertigo.
Just awareness.
Time passed without markers.
No one spoke.
One of the survivors—a man with a broad chest and scarred hands—began to shiver violently. His jaw clenched as he tried to suppress it, shoulders locking tight. The wind cut through his clothes mercilessly, stealing heat faster than his exhausted body could replace it.
Eirik watched without turning his head.
The shivering worsened.
The man shifted his weight, trying to rise.
His legs gave out immediately.
He caught himself on one knee, breath coming in harsh gasps, eyes wide with panic as the wind tore at him.
The man at the edge turned his head slightly.
Not fully.
Just enough.
"Stay down," he said.
The survivor hesitated.
The mountain chose that moment to gust harder.
The man lost his balance.
He slid.
Stone scraped beneath him as he scrambled for purchase, fingers clawing uselessly at frost-slick rock. His body tipped toward the edge, gravity pulling eagerly.
Eirik moved.
Not fast.
Not dramatically.
He pushed off the stone with one foot and reached out, fingers closing around the man's wrist. The skin was ice-cold, slick with sweat and snow. The man's grip locked instantly, desperate, crushing.
Eirik leaned back, planting his heel against a shallow ridge in the stone.
Pain flared through his shoulder as the weight pulled against him.
The man at the edge did not intervene.
He watched.
Eirik adjusted his grip, sliding his hand up to the forearm where muscle offered more purchase. He did not pull immediately. He waited for the man's thrashing to slow, for the panic to burn itself out just enough.
Then he pulled.
The survivor collapsed onto the stone, gasping, fingers digging into the ground as if afraid it might vanish.
Eirik released him and returned to his spot without a word.
The wind did not change.
The man at the edge nodded once.
Not to Eirik.
To the mountain.
"Stand," he said.
They did.
Slowly.
Carefully.
"You passed," the man continued, his voice carrying easily over the wind. "That does not mean you succeeded."
He turned to face them fully now, his gaze sharp and unyielding.
"It means you were not discarded."
No pride colored his tone.
No approval.
"You are still Trell," he said. "Expendable. Replaceable."
The words struck harder than any insult.
"From this moment forward, however, your deaths will be noticed."
Silence followed.
Not relief.
Not hope.
Pressure.
"You will descend," he said, gesturing toward a narrow path cut into the opposite side of the ledge. "If you fall now, no one will look for you."
He stepped aside.
The path was worse than the climb.
Narrower. Steeper. Less deliberate. Where the ascent had tested endurance, this tested control under exhaustion. Snow had packed unevenly against the steps, hiding ice beneath deceptive softness.
One by one, they moved.
Eirik went second.
He took each step with care, testing footing before committing weight. His muscles trembled constantly now, fatigue deep and unrelenting, but he did not let his breathing become ragged.
Below him, the clouds thickened.
Above, the mountain loomed.
Halfway down, the survivor he had pulled back began to lag.
His movements were stiff, uncoordinated. The cold had settled deep into him, stealing flexibility. He slipped once, catching himself only by slamming his shoulder into the rock wall.
He looked up at Eirik, eyes wild.
Eirik did not slow.
He could not.
Helping again would cost more than it saved.
The man slipped a second time.
This time, he did not catch himself.
His body slid off the path, vanishing into the clouds below without a sound.
No one reacted.
They continued downward.
By the time they reached the Hall grounds, only six remained.
The yard felt different.
Not warmer.
But less oppressive.
The pressure that had weighed on Eirik since stepping through the gate was gone, replaced by the familiar, grinding cold of the mountain's lower slopes. Wind still cut across the stone, but it no longer pressed inward.
The Hall stood unchanged.
Immovable.
The survivors were lined up again, this time in front of a different structure—smaller than the main barracks, built closer to the mountain's face. Its stone walls were smoother, better maintained. Smoke rose steadily from its vents.
An Inner-Bound building.
They knew it instinctively.
The difference lay not in appearance, but in presence.
The overseer from the barracks stood waiting, his iron rod back in hand. He looked at the six of them, eyes narrowing slightly.
"So," he said. "You lived."
He paced in front of them, rod tapping lightly against his leg.
"Don't mistake that for advancement."
He stopped in front of one survivor—a thin man with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes.
"You," the overseer said, tapping the rod against the man's chest. "You froze on the ledge."
The man swallowed hard.
"I—"
The rod struck his knee.
He went down with a cry, leg buckling.
The overseer turned away immediately.
"Outer-Bound work," he said to no one in particular. "Or you die slow."
The message was clear.
Survival had earned them nothing but options.
They were separated.
Four were sent toward the Inner-Bound building.
Two—including Eirik—were directed elsewhere.
The path Eirik was led down curved around the Hall's side, away from the main structures. Snow lay deeper here, less disturbed. Stone markers protruded from the ground at irregular intervals, their surfaces etched with faint, worn symbols.
A training yard.
Crude. Open. Exposed.
Several figures already stood there, moving through slow, deliberate motions. Their clothes were heavier, better fitted. Their movements precise, economical.
Outer-Bound.
The overseer stopped at the edge of the yard.
"You're not one of them," he said, gesturing toward the training figures. "Not yet."
He pointed to a patch of stone at the yard's far edge.
"You'll clear it."
The task was simple.
Remove snow.
Break ice.
Expose stone.
The tools were worse.
Blunt shovels. Chipped picks.
Eirik took one and began.
The work burned differently than hauling stone. Smaller movements. Repetitive strain. Each strike sent vibrations up his arms, jolting exhausted muscles.
He worked steadily.
The other Thrall assigned with him worked too fast.
Within minutes, his breathing turned harsh. His swings grew sloppy. The pick slipped, glancing off stone and striking his shin.
He screamed and dropped to the ground, clutching his leg.
The overseer watched for a moment.
Then turned away.
Eirik did not look back.
He finished his assigned section.
When he stepped back, breath steady, arms trembling with exhaustion, the overseer looked at the cleared stone, then at him.
"Hm," he said.
That was all.
As night fell again, Eirik was returned to the barracks.
It was quieter now.
Fewer bodies.
More space.
The brazier burned brighter, fed with better fuel.
Dinner was the same gray mash.
But the portion was larger.
Eirik ate without expression.
As he lay back on his pallet, muscles screaming in protest, the pressure brushed his awareness once more.
[RECORD LOGGED]
Event: Utholdenhetsprøven
Outcome: Survival
Observation: Subject adjusted response under loss.
Heaven Attention: None
It faded.
No title.
No recognition.
Eirik closed his eyes.
The mountain had tested him.
It had not finished.
And now, having noticed him—
It would test him harder.