The warm, golden glow of the mana stone bathed the nascent workshop, pushing back the oppressive gloom of the Shattered Teeth like a defiant candle. Omar stood in the circle of its light, the Frostbore fur vest warding off the worst of the cold, the weight of the bone lance grounded solidly beside him. He watched the light dance on Boulder's granite flank as the Mk. I carefully positioned another massive floor slab for the workshop. The simple radiance felt… profound. Human. A stark contrast to the corpse-light bleeding from the sky or the cold blue glare of the golems' eyes.
Omar: (Holding the stone aloft, voice softer than usual) "Not bad for dead earth, eh, Telchar?"
The Shard offered no reply, maintaining its usual clinical silence unless directly addressed.
A sudden, sharp chime echoed from Sentinel Prime, stationed near the shelter door. Its intense blue gaze snapped towards the valley entrance, the direction shielded by the perpetual, moaning blizzard barrier.
Prime: "Alert: Thermal signature detected at perimeter boundary. Bipedal. Fading rapidly. Collapsed."
Omar's hand tightened on the Frostbore Lance. "Show me."
The Shard interface flickered, overlaying Prime's sensor feed. At the very edge of the howling snow wall, where Omar's divine blizzard met the natural fury of the Shattered Teeth, a small, weak heat signature pulsed erratically in the snow. Humanoid. Prone.
Omar: "Not a beast. Not an Inquisitor… their signatures burn hotter. Warden?"
Warden:(Voice humming from near the southern ridge base) "Signature confirmed. Minimal threat potential. Vital signs: Critical. Hypothermic cascade detected."
**Boulder:** (Pausing its work, eye-lights fixed on the glow) "Query: Salvage protocol?"
Salvage. The word hung in the frigid air. Omar looked from the warm stone in his hand to the fading signature on the display. Someone was dying at his gates. Alone. Like he had been.
Omar: "Prime, with me. Boulder, maintain position. Shield, Anvil – defensive perimeter here. Warden, converge on the signature location. Secure approach."
He grabbed an extra heated mana stone he'd replicated earlier – a smaller, palm-sized version – and thrust it into a fur pouch. Frostbore Lance in hand, he moved towards the slope, Prime falling into step beside him like a silent avalanche. The descent felt longer, colder, the golden light of his stone a fragile beacon against the encroaching indigo dusk. Warden emerged from the shadows near the defile, moving with silent purpose to flank them.
They reached the edge of the domain's unnatural blizzard. The transition was brutal. The warm bubble vanished, replaced by the full, screaming fury of the Shattered Teeth' wind, laden with ice shards that stung exposed skin. Omar squinted, raising a fur-mittened hand against the onslaught. Ahead, a dark shape lay half-buried in a drift. Warden reached it first, scanning the area before giving a curt nod.
Warden: "No immediate hostiles. Signature origin: confirmed."
Omar knelt in the biting snow. It was a woman. Human, or nearly so. Gaunt, her face ravaged by frostbite, skin blistered and blackened in patches, particularly on her cheeks and fingers. Her clothes were ragged scavenger leathers and furs, crusted with ice. She clutched something tightly against her chest with hands that looked like frozen claws – a leather scroll case, its surface scorched and blackened, as if held too close to a star's heart. Her breathing was shallow, rapid, barely there.
Omar: "Shard, medical assessment."
`[Biological Scan:]`
`[Subject: Human Female (Severe Malnutrition, Advanced Hypothermia, Grade 3 Frostbite (Digits, Facial Tissue), Critical Dehydration)]`
`[Vital Signs: Failing. Core Temperature: 28°C. Estimated Time to Systemic Failure: 12 minutes.
`[Anomaly: Scroll case emits trace Shard-resonant energy signature.]`
Twelve minutes. Omar acted. He pulled the warm mana stone from the pouch and pressed it into her frozen hands, wrapping her stiff fingers around its radiating heat. He shrugged off his fur vest – the cold instantly biting through his tunic – and draped it over her shivering form.
Omar: "Hey. Can you hear me? Stay with me." He brushed caked snow from her face, his touch as gentle as he could manage.
Her eyelids fluttered. Cracked, frost-rimed lips parted. A whisper, torn away by the wind, reached him. "...B-Builder..."
Omar: "Builder? What builder?"
Her eyes, clouded with pain and cold, focused with immense effort on his face, then slid down to the faintly glowing sigil visible at the open collar of his tunic – the Craftsman's Shard mark.
Brenna: (Voice a rasp, barely audible over the storm) "T-tell... the Builder... the Bloodstone..." A violent shiver racked her. "...they found... his beacon..."
Omar:** (Leaning closer, urgency spiking) "What beacon? Where?"
Brenna:** Her gaze drifted upwards, towards the churning, corpse-lit sky overhead. "...The heartlight*..." she breathed, her voice fading. "...in the dead sky..." Her eyes rolled back, her body going terrifyingly limp.
Warden: "Vital signs collapsing."
Omar: "Prime! Get her back to the shelter! Now! Carefully!" He snatched the scorched scroll case from her frozen grip – it hummed faintly against his skin. Prime moved with surprising delicacy for its size, lifting the woman effortlessly, cradling her against its warm stone torso, shielding her from the wind with its body as it turned and began striding swiftly back towards the platform. Omar followed, clutching the scroll case, the Frostbore Lance forgotten in the snow for the moment. *Heartlight in the dead sky.* His beacon. The light from the Shard when he'd claimed this valley. They'd seen it. The Bloodstone Inquisitors had tracked it.
Back on the platform, under the golden glow of the central mana stone, Omar directed Prime to lay the woman on his frostwood-fiber bed. He piled heated stones around her, draped more furs over her, and pressed another warm mana stone against her chest. Boulder clanked over, peering down.
Boulder: "Flesh-unit: Non-functional. Query: Diagnostic procedure?" It extended a thick stone finger, poking her arm gently with a frostwood splinter Omar had been using for stitching.
Omar: "Boulder! No poking! Just… guard the door. Extra vigilant." He pulled out his meager medical supplies – scavenged herbs and clean cloth. He focused the Shard's matter manipulation on a bowl of water, heating it precisely, then began the slow, careful process of cleaning her frostbitten wounds, applying what poultices he could fashion. Her skin was ice-cold, lifeless. He worked with grim focus, the Shard feeding him minute physiological readouts.
`[Core Temperature: 29°C... 30°C... Stabilizing.
`[Cardiac Rhythm: Irregular → Stabilizing.]`
`[Frostbite Damage: Irreversible tissue loss (Minimal digits). Facial damage: Severe but survivable.
Hours passed. The corpse-light shifted through its unsettling cycle. Omar kept vigil, replacing cooling stones with warm ones, trickling melted snow mixed with mashed Frostbore meat paste between her lips when her swallowing reflex allowed. Her breathing deepened, steadied. Color, painful and raw, began to seep back into her ravaged cheeks.
As the deepest indigo of night began to lighten towards bruised purple, her eyes fluttered open. They were a startlingly clear, pale grey, clouded with confusion and pain, but alert. They darted around the crude shelter, taking in the stone walls, the fur-lined interior, the glowing mana stone, and finally, Omar's face, etched with exhaustion and concern, hovering over her.
Brenna: (Voice a cracked whisper) "...Alive?" She tried to move, wincing violently.
Omar: "Easy. You're safe. For now. Hypothermia. Frostbite. You nearly froze solid on my doorstep." He offered a small cup of warmed water.
She drank greedily, her grey eyes never leaving his, filled with a wary intensity. "Doorstep? This… this is the place? The heartlight valley?" Her gaze flickered to the Shard sigil on his chest, then to the scorched scroll case resting on a nearby workbench. "You… you *are* the Builder."
Omar: "Omar. Omar Young. And you are?"
Brenna: "Brenna. Of the Rimewalker Clan." She tried to push herself up, gasping at the pain in her hands and face. "The Bloodstone… they're coming. They saw the light. The beacon. They triangulated… traced the divine resonance." She nodded towards the scroll case. "That… that cost my brother his life. He stole it. Their map… their plans for this sector."
Omar retrieved the scroll case. It felt warm, vibrating faintly. He pulled out the contents – a map drawn on tough, treated hide. It depicted the Shattered Teeth in shocking detail, far beyond his Shard's current scans. His valley was marked clearly, labeled: **"Telchar's Folly - Shard Convergence Suspected."** Arrows pointed towards it from multiple directions. Routes were plotted through passes he hadn't known existed. And in the corner, a chillingly precise sketch of his Shard sigil, labeled: Primary Target - Extract."
Omar: "How many?"
Brenna: "Sect Gamma… the ones who chased you… They were just scouts. The main force… Zealot Primus Valerius leads them. Two hundred strong. Blessed by the Bloodstone Patriarch. They carry relics… things that crack divine wards like ice." She shuddered, pulling the furs tighter. "They move with the next deep freeze… three, maybe four days."
Two hundred fanatics. Armed with god-blood relics. Coming for his Shard. Coming to his sanctuary. The warmth of the shelter felt suddenly fragile. Omar stared at the map, the cold knot of fear back in his stomach, tighter than before. He looked at Brenna, her grey eyes holding his, filled with shared dread and a desperate spark of warning.
Omar: "Why risk your life? Why bring this here?"
Brenna: Her gaze dropped to the warm mana stone still clutched in her bandaged hands. "Because… because the light went out. The corpse-light star? Solara's Heart? It winked out the night your beacon flared. The Rimewalkers… we read the ice, the sky. Omens. That light dying… it felt like an ending." She looked back up, her voice gaining a sliver of strength. "Your light… the one in this stone… it feels like… a beginning. However desperate."
Outside the shelter, unseen by Omar or Brenna, on the sheer face of the southern ridge, the Watcher's Mark – the weeping eye glyph etched into the cold rock – pulsed once, violently. Not its usual fading blue, but a deep, ominous, **blood-red**. It glowed for three rapid beats, staining the surrounding ice crimson, then faded back to icy stillness. A silent scream in the frozen dark.
The message was clear. The fragile peace of Dominion Forge was over. The Bloodstone Inquisition was coming. And the Watcher was watching… waiting.