Frost crunched beneath their boots as they walked—three figures wrapped in cloaks, two swords between them, and a thousand unspoken words trailing in their wake.
The Frostwood stretched on like a graveyard made of trees.
Kael walked ahead, silent as always, barely leaving footprints. Aryelle followed, watching him like a puzzle she hadn't decided whether to solve or smash. Halric limped behind them, grumbling with every breath.
"You know," Halric said, "it occurs to me we're following a man whose entire reputation is 'has definitely murdered a lot of people.'"
Kael didn't look back. "Would you prefer I added you to the list?"
"Just checking," Halric muttered. "Still sharp as a snowblade."
Aryelle smirked. For a second, it felt like the old days—before ice swallowed the world, before she wore bitterness like armor.
They were headed east, toward the Echoing Pass, where mountain winds carved tunnels through cliffs, and voices lingered too long. The old maps called it cursed. Kael called it "necessary."
He hadn't explained why.
Naturally.
As they climbed higher, the air grew thinner, and the cold more aggressive. Aryelle's breath misted before her like a ghost trying to escape.
"Tell me something," she said to Kael. "Why are you helping me?"
Kael didn't answer at first. Then, "Because if you don't find the Crown, someone else will."
"That's not an answer. That's a deflection."
"It's both," he said.
She frowned. "You're awfully fond of riddles."
"I find them more tolerable than truths."
That silenced her for a while.
By nightfall, they reached the mouth of the pass.
The entrance yawned open, a crack in the mountain, jagged and dark. Inside, the wind howled in a way that didn't sound natural. It sounded like whispers—layered, too many, overlapping.
Kael lit a torch. The shadows writhed around him, resisting the flame. Aryelle noticed that again—how the shadows moved with him. Not like tricks of the firelight. Like things that obeyed.
She stepped closer to Halric. "He's not just a warlock, is he?"
"No," Halric muttered. "He's worse."
Inside the Echoing Pass
The walls were etched with old carvings—sigils and symbols no one had translated in generations. Aryelle touched one gently. It was cold as bone.
"Old magic," Kael said from ahead. "Don't touch too many. Some listen. Some bite."
"Lovely," Aryelle muttered.
As they walked, their footsteps echoed unnaturally—delayed, warped. Aryelle glanced back once and thought she saw their own shadows trailing just a little too far behind.
She didn't mention it.
Then the whispers started.
At first, she thought it was Halric talking.
But when she looked back, he was staring wide-eyed, sword halfway drawn.
The voice came again—soft, sweet, terrifying:
"Aryelle… Aryelle…"
Her breath caught.
It was her mother's voice.
Dead. Slaughtered. Crown shattered.
She spun around—nothing.
Kael grabbed her wrist. His grip was firm, grounding.
"They're not real," he said.
"How do you know?"
"Because the dead don't beg."
Suddenly, the cave trembled. A loud crack echoed through the walls. Stone groaned.
And from the shadows ahead, something moved.
No… emerged.
Tall. Twisted. Made of bone and frost. Eyes like shards of moonlight. A wight. Ancient. Wrong.
Aryelle drew her dagger. Halric raised his blade, already limping into place beside her.
But Kael didn't flinch.
He stepped forward.
"Hold," he said softly. "This one… listens."
The wight paused.
Aryelle stared, confused. "Listens to what?"
Kael raised his hand.
And the shadows behind him bowed.
To him.
The wight hissed… then stepped aside.
Aryelle's blood turned colder than the mountain wind.
"What are you?" she whispered.
Kael didn't answer.
He just walked forward.
And the pass let them through.