Tension hung heavy in the air of the Boreas Clan's meeting hall. Though the family had been in decline for over a decade, it remained one of the historic clans of Mith, the northern capital, and the grand chamber retained an aura of solemnity and prestige, forged by centuries of glory.
Master Orus, the clan's leader, sat upon a raised dais at the hall's far end, his weathered features creased in displeasure. His piercing gaze swept over the frightened high councilors, who sat on embroidered cushions, their eyes darting sideways to avoid his scrutiny, desperate to distance themselves from the crisis at hand.
"Ahem!" Orus cleared his throat, his voice a low rumble. "Are you certain the two youths headed north?"
The man who dared to speak appeared calmer than most in the room. Seated to the right of the clan leader, he exuded a quiet confidence. Clad in a traditional northern mantle adorned with furs that failed to conceal his ample belly, his round face and bald head gleamed under the torchlight. This was Vassil, the clan's treasurer, a man of unwavering loyalty whose composure held firm even in the most heated moments.
"Young Master Jean shared his plan with his trusted servant hours before departing," Vassil said evenly. "He believed Jean and Cassel would travel only a few kilometers from the Min stream in the north, not attempt to climb the entire mountain. That's why no one stopped them."
The second master, Tian Boreas, Cassel's uncle, spoke next from Orus's left. His long black hair was tied in a ponytail, and his sharp brows betrayed a fierce temperament. Feared more than the genial Orus for his strictness, coldness, and cunning, Tian's mood was darker than usual—his son, Jean, was also lost in the mountains.
"Is that boy Luke?" Orus demanded. "Bring him in. I wish to speak with him."
A pale young man entered the hall, his hair tied in a ponytail that mirrored Tian's. His attire mimicked his master's, but no trace of Tian's icy demeanor could be found; fear alone radiated from his face. Barely a few steps into the chamber, he dropped to his knees, pressing his forehead to the floor, and cried out in a trembling voice:
"This humble servant greets the elders! I never imagined the young masters would face danger in the northern mountains! I beg punishment for my failure!"
Silence gripped the hall. No one dared speak, though all shared Luke's unspoken question: what was wrong with the boys exploring the mountains? True, the region was harsh, with frequent snowstorms and some dangerous creatures. But while Young Master Cassel lacked strength, his younger cousin Jean bore a Rune of Vigor and was highly talented. Though not yet powerful, he should have been capable of protecting them.
"What do you know of the mountain's perils, you fool?" Tian roared, his voice thick with fury. "If anything happens to Jea—!" But Orus, his expression unyielding, raised a hand to silence him, leaving Tian with a bitter scowl.
"Let us clarify matters," Orus said, his tone grave. "We suppressed these reports to avoid panic, but the time for secrecy is over. There are signs of a new emergence of the mountain tribes."
A collective gasp echoed through the hall. Faces shifted—some paled with fear, others furrowed in confusion, and a few froze in outright terror.
"My lord, if I may," interjected a short, stout man with skin unusually tanned for a northerner, his braided beard reaching his chest. "What evidence leads you to say this? It would be a disaster if those mountain barbarians caught us unprepared again." He showed less deference to Orus than the others. This was Rimef, the master smith who had served the clan for decades, a half-Brondar—a race of natural strength from the continent's southeast. No one quite knew how such a man had ended up in the arid, distant north.
No one was surprised by Rimef's boldness; he was among the few who dared interrupt the elder in council. His question carried weight: the last encounter with the mountain tribes, four years prior, had been a tragedy. Even Dann Boreas, a clan leader, had vanished without a trace while investigating signs of the tribes in the north.
Vassil, with his characteristic grin, rose from his seat and glanced subtly at Orus, who nodded. Before the watchful eyes of the council, the treasurer thrust his hand into his mouth. The room remained unfazed; all knew of Vassil's strange abilities. After a moment of guttural sounds, he drew from the depths of his throat a single arrow of black wood, so dark it seemed to dim the room's light, as if it were a vortex swallowing all brightness. He tossed it to the center of the hall.
A sharp, mentholated scent filled the air, its freshness and slight sting assaulting the councilors' nostrils. Now, the only emotion in the room was the grim resolve etched on every leader's face.
"An arrow crafted from Shadowfirm Pine!" exclaimed Yorel, the elderly master of rites, his eyes wide with shock.
"Ha, ha, ha! Precisely, my dear Yorel," Vassil said, his smile widening. "You all know what this means."
"Only the tribes can harvest and wield Shadowfirm Pine of such quality without incurring the Guardians' wrath," said Somar, the clan's head of security.
"Where was this arrow found?" Rimef demanded, arms crossed.
"Nine days ago, a woman reported that her husband, a shepherd, went mad and attacked her and their children," Tian explained, his voice taut. "When the sentries apprehended him, they found this arrow in his possession. The wife said a stranger had struck one of their buffalo with it the previous day, and the shepherd kept it for its scent."
"The locals know the dangers of blackwood," said Esfer, the trade master, frowning. "Why would anyone carry it?"
"It began the same way last time," Somar replied grimly. "There are always those who ignore the kings' warnings."
"Did the boys know of this?" Rimef pressed, his gaze shifting to Tian.
Vassil's grin grew sharper, and he shot a mocking glance at Tian, whose face darkened with a scowl. Orus sat motionless, eyes closed, betraying no emotion. Slowly, he opened them and fixed his gaze on Luke, still prostrate on the floor.
"Luke," Orus said calmly, "did the boys tell you anything? Did they know of the tribes?"
The servant raised his head, trembling, and met the leader's eyes. "No, my lord. Young Master Jean said nothing of the tribes, but…" He paused, scanning the nervous faces around him, lingering a moment longer on Tian's cold stare.
"Speak!" Rimef barked.
Luke snapped from his reverie, a flicker of resolve crossing his face. He looked to Orus and continued: "Young Master Jean told me that, while visiting Master Tian's study for guidance on his cultivation, he found writings in which the master mused on an ancient legend."
The councilors' expressions turned strange, their eyes locking onto Tian, whose face flushed with shame.
"Be specific," Orus said, his voice steady but commanding.
Luke's gaze swept the room once more before settling on the leader. "He said they were heading to the mountains in search of the legendary Rune of the Daughters of the Cold."