3 Months Later...
The winter had entered in full force. Heavy blankets of snow covered the land, swallowing the earth beneath its icy weight. The air was sharper than ever, cutting through breath and skin alike, and every villager moved slowly under the burden of the season. Some bent their backs to pound paths into the snow with crude tools, carving lines of passage so others could walk. Some used fire, carrying burning logs to melt away the frost, while others relied only on raw strength, shoveling endlessly with their bare arms and iron will.
Thick clothes wrapped around their bodies — stitched from bear skin, layered with the coarse wool of sheep. Their faces peeked out beneath hoods, red from the cold yet determined to survive another winter in this land where storms felt alive.
Far from the center of the village, nestled at the base of the mountain, stood Wood Farm. From its slopes, you could see everything: the clustered village houses with smoke rising from chimneys, the frozen river glistening faintly in the pale light, the lakes bound in solid ice. Every tree, every road, every plant all drowned in white.
The silence of snow was broken by the sound of a goat trotting out of the house. It jumped, kicked its legs, ran a few steps, then suddenly froze, its little eyes landing on the figure before it. Its caretaker.
Aron.
He had grown taller, broader, stronger. His shoulders now carried the weight of a man. His muscles wrapped his body like armor — thick and defined, like a walking warrior from old legends. He looked like the very image of a Viking, though such men had never lived in these lands. But strength, after all, was in the blood.
Aron crouched on one knee, brushing the snow with his movement. "Did you eat something?" he murmured, rubbing his right hand gently over the goat's head. The animal bleated in approval, its voice soft and playful in the quiet of the night.
Lifting the goat carefully in his arms, Aron carried it back inside to the warmth of the burning wood, setting it in its place near the fire. "Stay there," he whispered, then pulled the door shut behind him.
The night was vast above him. The sky looked alive with stars, more numerous than he remembered, the cold air sharpening every twinkle. His breath rose in clouds of silver mist, his hair swaying with each soft gust.
It's been three months since we began training, Aron thought as he walked along the snowy path, his eyes drifting upward to the heavens. Three months since I left my home. I thought it was the end for me back then, but instead I found people who looked at me like family. People who loved me like a son… and trusted me like a father.
He stopped in his tracks. The laughter of children carried faintly from behind him — small figures playing in the snow. He watched them for a long moment, the firelight of the village painting their faces with warmth.
Have I come a long way? Aron asked himself. Or do I still carry guilt in me? Maybe I wasn't born to fight. Maybe I could stay here forever, among these people, and live in peace.
But another voice inside him whispered: No. What remains in you is revenge.
Aron turned away from the children and walked further, his boots crunching the snow with each step, until he reached a high ridge. From there, the land stretched endlessly, and above it — the sky shimmered.
The Aurora borealis painted itself across the heavens in green waves, neon light dancing and twisting like spirits freed from the earth. Aron sat down on the frozen rock, away from the village's noise, his eyes fixed on the spectacle. He was waiting.
"I have trained so much," he whispered to the sky, "but this is only the beginning. My journey stretches far ahead."
The world was calm. Peaceful. The air moved like a living thing, brushing through his hair, thick with the taste of frost. Then he heard it — the crunch of feet against snow. Someone was running toward him.
Aron turned his head. Carlos emerged from the dark, his figure broad but lighter than Aron's frame. His breath came fast, his grin brighter than the cold around him.
"Ha!" Carlos laughed, spotting him. "Found you!" He dropped onto the snow beside Aron, his smile blessed and warm. "I knew you'd be here."
The two sat in silence. From afar, the villagers had lit a great bonfire. Shadows of dancers flickered against the white backdrop, songs echoing faintly across the frozen ground.
Carlos's eyes lifted toward the sky. "So pretty," he murmured. "That's why I love winter. Tell me, Aron… what do you see ahead? Our training's done now. What comes next for you?"
Aron exhaled deeply, his gaze sinking into the infinite lights above. "No," he said quietly. "My training has only begun. What we had — it was just a phase."
The wind howled suddenly, sharp as a blade, rattling the branches, whistling through the rocks. Down below, the villagers danced harder, their celebration growing wild. The air smelled of burning wood, of roasting meat.
Inside, Aron wrestled with a knot he couldn't untie. A rope of guilt pulled him from both ends. His heart yearned for peace, but his blood called for vengeance.
Carlos rose, brushing snow from his clothes. "Come, Aron. Let's join them. Enough brooding in the dark."
Aron nodded silently. Together, they walked down to the fire.
The villagers greeted them with laughter and cheers, pressing bowls of steaming food into their hands. Meat roasted on hot coals filled the air with a heavy, delicious scent. Aron devoured the beef hungrily, while Carlos joined the circle of dancers, stomping his boots in rhythm with the drums.
For the first time in months, Aron smiled. Watching them laugh, watching the children spin in circles, watching the joy burn brighter than the fire, he thought: Maybe I have found a meaning. A meaning to live… to protect them from danger.
The night moved like a dream. Slow motion. The laughter, the clapping, the songs — everything felt alive.
But time always moves on. The fire burned low, the music ended, and one by one the villagers drifted back to their homes. Carlos clasped Aron's shoulder before leaving. "Goodnight, brother."
"Goodnight."
Aron walked alone to his house. Inside, the farm was quiet. Wood slept soundly. Aron lit a candle, its flame flickering against the walls, and reached for the book resting on the table. Its cover was dark, but across it a single golden letter shone: N.
He flipped through the pages, one after another. Words appeared, glowing faintly before fading like ghosts. Over and over, one word returned. Strength.
And then it vanished.
Aron clenched his teeth. "How much more strength do I need to build?" He slammed the book shut, anger burning in him. Tossing it aside, he buried himself under a heavy sheet, closing his eyes with a storm inside his chest.
Sleep claimed him fast. But sleep did not bring peace.
A voice echoed in the darkness.
Successor.
The pride of humanity.
Obey and learn. He is coming…
The book, forgotten on the floor, opened by itself. Its pages fluttered in the cold draft. The candle flame bent, sputtered, and then it went out.