The air grew thinner as Althar climbed higher, each breath a jagged rasp in his chest. The world below, the village and its smoke and laughter, had vanished into shadow. The Seven Hills pressed down on him, their jagged peaks cutting the sky, and with every step, the pulse of exhaustion deepened. Hunger gnawed at him, making his limbs sluggish, his thoughts foggy. Yet he could not stop. Every step forward was for Elira, for his mother, for the faint hope that lingered at the top of this cursed range.
By the time he reached the fifth hill, the thin mountain air made his head spin. Each inhalation burned his lungs, each exhale trembled with weakness. Then came the sounds. Low growls that were neither wolf nor man—sounds that reverberated in the fog, vibrating through the earth beneath him. His pulse quickened, fear biting at his bones.
From the mist emerged a pack of wolves. Their eyes glowed like embers, red and unyielding. Their fur bristled with unnatural tufts, ragged and wet, as if they had been clawing through decay. The ground around them was littered with human bones, shattered skeletons grinning up at him from the soil. Each fragment seemed to warn him: none had ever survived this path.
Althar's legs wobbled, fatigue pulling him down like chains. Hunger made his limbs sluggish; the strength he had left was mere stubbornness. Still, survival surged through him. He sprinted, dodging the snapping jaws of the first wolf, its teeth grazing his arm. Pain shot through him, raw and hot, but he did not fall. Step after step, stumble after stumble, he pushed himself forward.
The pack chased him, howls cutting through the mist like blades. Fear propelled him faster than hunger or exhaustion could hinder him. His lungs burned, his chest ached, but finally, after what felt like hours, he reached the sixth hill.
Here, the terrain shifted. No longer a torturous slope, this peak seemed almost... normal. The rocks were smoother, the incline gentler. Yet it felt wrong. Too quiet. Too still. Every instinct screamed that danger lurked where the hills appeared calm.
He stumbled upon a narrow slope leading to a river—or what seemed to be a river. The water shimmered unnaturally, flowing not downwards as all rivers should, but in defiance of gravity, creeping upward toward the hills. It glowed faintly, pale blue, like the mist itself had been distilled into liquid light. In its center, he saw the plant.
The medicinal herb his mother needed, glowing with a soft, warm luminescence, as if the world itself had waited to present it to him. Althar's chest tightened. Hope sparked, fleeting and fragile, but enough to make him ignore exhaustion.
He stepped into the water. The chill was biting, numbing his legs. Each stroke was laborious; every movement was a battle against fatigue. The current, defying logic, carried him upward, as though the river itself had a will. Yet it was not strong enough to push him fast. It mocked him—he was so close, yet so far from salvation.
A voice broke the silence. Sweet, melodic, and strangely ethereal. "What are you doing?" it asked. Althar froze, turning toward the source.
She appeared in the mist, impossibly beautiful, with eyes like polished glass and hair that shimmered like moonlight. Her presence radiated power, and yet, there was a weight behind it, a sharpness that set every nerve on edge.
"That… that is mine," she said, her voice soft but commanding.
Althar swallowed, trembling. "I… I'm sorry. It's… it's to save my mother."
Her lips curved into a small, knowing smile. "Hmm. And can you take it?"
"I… I can," he whispered, hope sparking like a fragile flame. "May I… may I take it?"
"Yes," she said slowly, tilting her head. Her eyes locked onto him with a gaze that both fascinated and terrified him. "But if you are going to save your mother… who will save you?"
Althar's stomach churned violently, his hands trembling. He did not understand. "What do you mean?" he asked, voice barely audible.
Then came the sound—a sickening crack, like bones being snapped under immense weight. The wind whispered through the hills, carrying a stench of decay that made him gag. He looked up at her again, and the beauty had gone. In its place was something else: something rotten, horrific, a form that defied all sense and reason. Skin hung in shreds; eyes glowed with a madness that burned into his soul. Every instinct screamed flee, yet he could not move fast enough.
Before he could react, the thing lunged. Its hand—twisted and clawed—pushed him into the icy river. Pain exploded through him as he hit the water, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. Hunger, exhaustion, and fear collided into a chaotic storm inside him. His arms flailed as he tried to grasp the glowing plant, but the currents were strange and unpredictable. The water seemed alive, twisting around him, defying gravity as it flowed upward toward the hills.
Althar screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the roar of the river and the shriek of the hills. He thrashed, lungs burning, but the plant remained just out of reach, a fragile beacon of hope in the strange, rising river. Each stroke took every ounce of his strength, yet he could not stop. If he failed now, his mother would die. His sister would starve. He would have nothing.
The water pressed against him, cold and unrelenting, searing through every muscle. His arms ached, his legs trembled, and yet he clawed forward. The hills seemed to stretch endlessly, the mist thickening, blurring reality. Shapes moved in the fog—shadows that reached out, trying to drag him under. The river itself twisted unnaturally, carrying him up, yet never fast enough.
Then he heard her voice again, sweet, almost mocking. "Who will save you, little one?"
Althar's soul flinched. His body screamed for respite, but terror and determination fused into something stronger. He looked up, meeting her eyes—or what he thought were her eyes—and the horror in them burned into his very being. They were empty, endless, ancient.
A sudden force struck him from behind. He tumbled, water swallowing him in a frozen embrace. Panic surged through him. He tried to scream, tried to fight, but the river—rising, twisting, unnatural—clutched him in its icy fingers. Every breath he took burned, every stroke pulled him further into exhaustion.
His mind flashed with images of home: his mother calling his name, Elira's hopeful eyes. I cannot fail. I cannot die here.
The plant glowed brighter, almost as if it sensed his desperation. Althar reached again, fingers brushing its edge, but the water shifted, teasing him, mocking him. Another push from the rotten figure in the mist knocked him sideways. Pain and hunger collided in a crushing weight, making him feel as if the world itself was pressing down on his chest.
He began to drift, slowly, inexorably. Darkness edged his vision. The hills above seemed to loom impossibly, the sky distant and unreachable. Yet even as the cold numbed his body, a stubborn fire flared inside him.
I will not let them die. I cannot die.
Althar's hands clawed at the water, each movement desperate, frantic, instinctive. He remembered every lesson from the labor of the village—the grip of stone, the stubbornness of muscles that refused to yield. Pain and fear fueled him. He pushed, kicked, stretched, anything to reach the glowing herb.
The figure above laughed—a low, hollow sound that rattled his bones. "You are foolish," it hissed, voice echoing across the hills. "This is not yours to take."
Althar's eyes burned with tears and exertion. "It is! It's for my family!"
The current twisted around him, flowing upward, but his hands brushed the glowing leaves. The plant seemed alive, vibrating under his touch, warm and pulsing with an almost sentient energy. His fingers closed around it. Relief, sharp and blinding, coursed through him—but the hills were not done with him yet.
The figure struck again, this time closer, its rotten hand brushing his back, and he screamed in pain and frustration. His body flailed, the river's unnatural flow disorienting him. He could feel himself drifting toward exhaustion, drifting toward a cold oblivion. But the plant—his mother's hope—was clenched in his hands.
Then, for a brief, terrifying moment, the world stilled. The crows' cries from lower peaks echoed faintly, the river's upward pull paused, and the mist thickened like a velvet curtain. Althar hung in the river, trembling, broken, yet clutching the plant.
He had no strength to celebrate. No time to rejoice. Every inch forward had been bought with pain,