The frozen gravel gnawed at Elias's knees, a constant, grinding pain that punctuated the guttural hum of the Vultarian chants. He was dragged, not led, into the heart of the ritual site, a place that felt older than the mountains that cradled it. A crude circle of jagged, soot-stained stones clawed at the bruised twilight sky. From their points hung macabre ornaments: the splintered bones of beasts and men, the skulls of mountain cats with jaws agape in silent screams, and the frozen, ruffled feathers of crows, each one a tiny shard of night.
Low fires burned in cracked ceramic bowls set between the stones, their flames a sickly orange. They offered no warmth, only an acrid smoke that stung the eyes and coated the back of the throat with the taste of burnt pitch and something unnervingly metallic. The air, already thin and sharp with cold, felt thick, suffocating, a physical weight that pressed down with the rhythm of the tribe's chanting.
Beside Elias, Thorne was a monument of battered resilience. Ropes bit deep into his wrists, and a fresh, dark cut wept a slow trail of crimson from his hairline into his grizzled beard. He didn't stumble. He forced his captors to haul his entire dead weight, a silent act of defiance that earned him a brutal shove, sending him sprawling near the circle's center. Elias, ever the observer, noted the way Thorne met the frozen earth—not with a cry, but with a grunt of furious frustration, his muscles cording as he fought against his bonds.
High above, nestled in a crevice at the edge of the cliffs, Olaf watched. The wind was a razor against his chapped face. He was a small, frightened shadow against the immense stone, his breath pluming in panicked clouds he tried to stifle. From this vantage point, the fires looked like malevolent eyes, and the chanting was a monstrous heartbeat. He saw Elias, his flamboyant tunic torn and dirtied. He saw Thorne, the unbreakable shield, now bound and bloodied. Fear was a cold stone in his gut, heavy and absolute. He was unseen, but he was trapped here as surely as they were.
The chanting faltered, then ceased. The sudden silence was more terrifying than the noise it replaced. Every Vultarian, from the hulking warriors with flint axes to the fur-clad women with wary eyes, turned their heads as one toward a dark maw in the cliffside—a cave entrance that seemed to drink the very light.
From this darkness, a figure emerged, and the air itself grew teeth.
He was the Bone Shaman. Stooped and ancient, he moved with a palsied grace, his form lost within layers of cloaks stitched from the skins of wolves and bears. His face was hidden behind a mask fashioned from the enormous skull of a crow, its empty sockets seeming to hold a profound and chilling emptiness. Dangling from the mask, from his cloaks, from the staff he clutched in a claw-like hand, were dozens of frost-covered talismans—yellowed teeth, bird claws, and rune-etched stones that clicked and whispered with every shuffling step. His staff, a gnarled length of petrified wood, was crowned with a cluster of human finger bones bound tightly in glistening sinew. It rattled not with the wind, but with a dry, internal tremor, like the last breath of a dying man.
As he entered the circle, his presence was a physical force. Hoarfrost spiderwebbed across the surface of the great stones, tracing patterns like frozen veins. The last embers of the fires seemed to shrink away from him. The Vultarians fell to their knees, a wave of submission rippling through the crowd. They did not bow their heads but kept their eyes fixed on him, thumping the hafts of their spears and axes against the hard-packed earth in a slow, reverent rhythm. Thump. Thump. Thump.
The Shaman raised his free hand, and the thumping stopped. He drifted towards the two captives, his masked gaze sweeping over them. When he finally spoke, his voice was a horror—a dry, broken rasp, like stones grinding together deep underground. The words were fractured, eerie, seeming to come from a place beyond language.
"Crow… is angry…" The statement hung in the freezing air. He pointed a skeletal finger, first at the path they had taken to get here. "You trespass… you walk… where only spirits walk." He was referring to the totems, the sacred markers they had passed in their desperate flight through the mountains. "Sacred ground cries out… your steps are… bruises."
His masked head then swiveled, his gaze seeming to pierce the darkness and find the very cliff where Olaf hid. "A spirit-fire… danced on our peaks. A false light. An offense." Olaf flinched, pressing himself deeper into the rock. The Shaman couldn't see him, could he?
The Shaman's attention snapped back to the circle, his focus landing on Thorne, who was now pushing himself into a kneeling position, his eyes blazing with caged fury. "This one," the Shaman rasped, his staff rattling violently, "spilled the blood of the Crow's children. His defiance… is desecration."
He raised both his hands, the bone talismans clattering. "The signs are clear!" he shrieked, his voice rising to a piercing cry. The Vultarians answered him, a unified, visceral screech that echoed off the cliffs, a sound of pure, primal bloodlust calling for punishment.
This was Elias's stage, however grim. The sword had failed, flight had failed. All that was left was the word. Drawing a ragged breath, he pitched his voice to carry, layering it with the melodic timbre he used to soothe tavern brawls and charm wealthy patrons.
"Great Shaman, wisest of your people," he began, his tone respectful, almost reverent. "We are but lost travelers, ignorant of your sacred ways. We meant no offense to the great spirit you serve. Our journey is one of peace, a song in search of a home…"
He tried to weave a plea into a melody, to turn their trespass into a misunderstanding, their presence into the fated arrival of humble supplicants. For a moment, a few of the tribesmen tilted their heads, their harsh features softening with a flicker of curiosity. The Bard's voice was a thing of magic in this land of grunts and shouts.
But the Shaman would have none of it. He slammed the butt of his staff onto the frozen ground. A violent crack echoed through the circle, and the bones atop it rattled with a sound like a nest of angry vipers. He began to chant over Elias's words, a low, guttural counter-melody that drowned out reason with raw power. Elias's silver tongue was met with a wall of archaic fury.
When the Shaman stopped, he pointed a trembling, accusatory finger at the Bard. "He sings lies!" the rasping voice declared, twisting the plea into an indictment. "Trickster tongue! He weaves spells of deceit to poison the ear of the Crow!"
The spell of curiosity was broken. The Vultarians, their brief moment of calm shattered, surged with renewed anger. They jeered, spitting insults in their harsh language. A few of them picked up loose stones and hurled them, not to hit the prisoners, but to land at their feet in sharp, threatening thuds that sprayed them with dirt and ice. The Bard's attempt had not only failed; it had made things worse.
The Shaman's empty gaze settled on Thorne. The warrior's defiance, his struggle during their capture which had left Vultarians wounded, an unforgivable sin. The Shaman pointed his staff at him, the bone crown seeming to aim like a weapon.
"This one," he rasped, the words heavy with condemnation. "This one has offended the Crow most. He bears the stench of iron and arrogance. He met the children of the mountain with violence. His blood is tainted."
Two warriors surged forward, grabbing Thorne by his arms and hauling him to his feet. They kicked his legs out from under him, throwing him down hard before the central, largest stone of the circle. He landed with a sickening crunch, the air forced from his lungs. For a moment, Thorne lay still, his face pressed into the frost-slicked dirt. Then, with a roar of pure, undiluted rage, he strained against his bonds, his body a knot of furious muscle.
It was a futile effort. One by one, tribesmen stepped forward to kick dust and snow over him, to spit on his back. It was a ritual humiliation, a stripping of pride, meant to break the spirit before they broke the body. Thorne took it all, his face hidden, his breathing harsh and ragged.
The Shaman watched the degradation with detached satisfaction. When he felt the warrior's spirit had been sufficiently trampled, he raised his staff again for silence. "He will not die… by the simple blade," the Shaman declared. "The Crow demands a test. A trial of bone. He will face our champion. If his spirit is strong, the Crow may find him worthy. If it is weak…" The Shaman let the threat hang in the air, more potent than any promise. "…he will be broken for the altar."
The sentence was passed. The Bard and the Knight were to be kept alive, for now. Their fate was not their own; it was tied to Thorne's performance in a trial he could not possibly comprehend. If he failed, they would both be sacrificed "beneath the wings of the Crow" when the next moon rose.
The Shaman raised his staff to the darkening heavens. A visible spiral of frost coiled up from the bone crown, twisting like a serpent of pure cold as it ascended into the night air. The Vultarians, their lust for immediate blood sated by the promise of ritual, began their chant anew, louder and more fervent than before. The sound hammered at the cliffs, a promise of death echoing in the desolate landscape.
From his hiding place, Olaf trembled uncontrollably. The cold that seeped into his bones was nothing compared to the ice flooding his veins. He had lit the fire that had drawn their eye. He was the "spirit-fire," the omen that had sealed their fate. He watched the scene below—the condemned Bard, the humiliated Knight, the terrifying Shaman, and the bloodthirsty tribe—and a horrifying realization crested over his fear. There was no one coming to save them. No patrol, no passing merchant, no hero of legend. There was only him.
He was their only hope.