I didn't sleep.
I tried. But the fire crackled. The runes pulsed beneath my skin. And my heart—gods, my heart—refused to slow.
Even now, as I sat wrapped in Vetrbjorn pelts, body warm and belly full, I couldn't stop shaking.
Not from the cold. That was nothing now.
But from… something else.
Like my bones were humming. Like every inch of me was being rewired—rebuilt. I felt stronger than I ever had. More alert. But also like I might snap the moment I let my guard down.
Eventually, I gave up.
I stood and stretched, my joints cracking with quiet relief. The cave felt smaller than it had before. Like the walls were pressing in, whispering for me to keep moving.
So I stepped past the firelight and headed deeper into the cavern.
That's when I saw it.
A faint shimmer in the dark.
I narrowed my eyes and followed it, ducking between narrow ridges of ice-slick stone, half-crawling through a tunnel I hadn't noticed earlier. My breath fogged around me, but I didn't feel cold.
Not anymore.
And then—I found them.
Fenrir's Fangs.
One blade was half-buried in frost, caught between the cracks of old stone. The other rested beside a ribcage—some ancient kill, perfectly preserved by the cave's unnatural cold.
I knelt down, brushed the frost away, and wrapped my fingers around the hilts.
The runes on my arms surged with light.
Power didn't just flow into me—it recognized me. Like the blades and my body had been waiting to meet again.
The metal lengthened slightly in my grip. The curved edges sharpened with my breath. They pulsed in time with my heartbeat.
Alive.
I stood, blades in hand, and gave them a few experimental swings. The sound they made wasn't metal-on-air—it was deeper, like wind moving through a long-forgotten temple.
These weren't just daggers.
They were an extension of something older. Something watching.
Something waiting.
I returned to the fire and sat cross-legged, the blades resting across my lap. I took a long look at them—really looked.
Their hilts were made from blackened wood, twisted like the gnarled roots of a dead tree. Each was different, almost grown rather than carved. The dark gray metal absorbed light, shimmering faintly with runes that flickered in and out of sight.
These weren't forged by mortal hands.
And they'd saved me once already.
I looked down at my arms, runes coiled from wrist to shoulder. Not ink. Not scars. Just… part of me now. Like they'd always been there—waiting under the skin.
I flexed my fingers slowly.
Stronger. Faster. But still unfamiliar.
The Vetrbjorn had nearly killed me. And that had been before this.
Now? I didn't know. I wasn't invincible. But I was changing.
And the change hadn't stopped.
My breath came slower. My senses felt sharper. The more I focused, the more I could feel the mountain breathing—or maybe it was just the wind echoing in the distance, but it sounded almost… alive.
I wasn't sure how long I sat like that.
Eventually, the fire dimmed to embers.
And with it, the stillness settled.
⸻
By the time the first rays of dawn crawled over the cave mouth, I was already moving.
I doused the fire, strapped Fenrir's Fangs to my belt, and stepped out into the storm.
The wind greeted me with a howl.
But it felt different now—like it was testing me. Not trying to kill me. The snow underfoot was thicker than ever, but my steps were steady. My fingers didn't tremble. My lungs burned clean with each breath.
I moved with purpose.
The climb ahead was steep—long and winding, carved only by those desperate or foolish enough to chase the summit. I took it slow at first, letting my muscles stretch into each motion, testing how my body responded.
Every motion felt… right.
I leapt between ledges, gripping ice-slick stone like it was dry earth. My knees bent deeper. My landings were silent. I could hear the cracking of frost beneath the surface, sense the weight of snow building on each slope.
It wasn't perfection.
But it was mine.
Halfway through the climb, I paused to rest on a ledge jutting from the mountainside. My gaze drifted down.
The world below had vanished into cloud.
No cities. No cheers. No kingdom.
Just white.
Above, the summit waited. And I could feel the tension rising the higher I got. Like something was pressing against my chest—not fear, exactly. But anticipation. My instincts knew something was coming.
I stood again.
And that's when I saw them.
Footprints.
Deep, wide, and frozen solid.
I crouched, brushing my fingers along the edge of one. The cold that bled from it was… unnatural. Even now, with my body burning like a forge, the ice bit me. Not in the skin. In the bone.
Whatever made these was still ahead.
And the last time I'd followed these tracks, I'd nearly died.
But I wasn't the same boy anymore.
⸻
By midday, the summit came into view again.
The wind died as I crossed the final ridge.
Not faded. Not quieted.
Gone.
It was like stepping into a sealed tomb.
Above the clouds now, the air was thin and dry. The horizon stretched endlessly in all directions—snow-covered peaks like frozen spears reaching for the heavens.
And at the center of it all—where the world fell still—was a corpse.
The Vetrbjorn still lay there, twisted and broken beneath a mound of stone and frost. Its white fur was stained with dried black blood, and its mouth hung open in a final snarl.
But the thing that had killed it… was nowhere to be seen.
At least—not at first.
My breath stilled.
Instincts screamed.
A shadow stepped out from behind a pillar of ice.
It wasn't the same giant.
This one was smaller. Leaner. A few heads shorter than the first. But it was still monstrous—nearly five meters tall, built like a statue carved from blue ice and old rage. Its skin was cracked like glacier stone, and it carried a hammer nearly the size of my body.
Its eyes met mine.
Hollow. Glowing. Endless.
There was no hate there. No rage.
Just emptiness.
But I didn't flinch.
Not this time.
I rolled my shoulders and drew the daggers.
"You owe me your neck," I muttered, voice low.
The runes on my arms sparked.
And the mountain answered.