In years to come, Taika would tell anyone who asked that her life had never been lacking. She would say it not because she wanted pity or because it sounded tidy when framed that way—she said it because it was true in the particular, stubborn sort of way she liked: not a grand life, not an easy one—but not empty of things that mattered.
She had been very small when her parents were gone. The how and the when were tidy enough for a village to recount between loaves and ale—short sentences, a shake of the head, the practical exchange of who would take what animal or which bed. What the village remembered as loss, Taika remembered as rearrangement. The house that had been two places of sorrow became a single place of work. Where people whispered "poor thing" she found hands that taught her how to mend a torn sleeve so the sleeve would not be tossed, and how to prop up a leaning fence so the leaning would not become ruin. She learned the arithmetic of survival—how many jars of preserves for a long winter, how many rounds of stitching for a wool shirt—until the numbers were as familiar as the grain in her palm.
She was never lonely because the world around her was insistently full. There were always neighbors to borrow sugar from, children to race down the frozen stream and leave streaks of red cheeks, old women on benches with stories like worn maps. Even the animals had opinions: the old black dog that regarded her with a tolerant sort of royalty, the goat that demanded sardonic negotiation every morning. Company was not measured by grand declarations of love but by the steady, ordinary discipline of people showing up. That steadiness suited Taika. She liked things that did what they were meant to do.
Her life, if one wanted to be romantic about it, had texture. There were songs that remembered the river and the way it ate rocks without malice. There were recipes scribbled on paper in a hand that had once belonged to someone else. There were friends who became the punctuation between her sentences. And there was a small unshakable certainty that, even when the weather turned ragged and the day conspired against the best-laid plans, the next sunrise would have bread and reason enough to stand for.
So, when she would later speak of not being lonely, she did not mean to suggest an absence of sorrow or risk. She meant the ordinary truth: she had people who knew her name; she carried skills that kept her from being helpless; she had a temper that was quick to protect what she loved. That, she would say — and say again in quieter voices — was a life that was full enough.
The village itself was small, tucked into a valley surrounded by thick pine forests and snow-dusted hills. Wooden cabins clustered along winding paths that glimmered with frost in the morning sun, and the central square—where villagers gathered for festivals, meetings, and the occasional trade—was a lively hub of activity, even this early in the day. Smoke drifted lazily from chimneys, carrying with it the mixed aromas of baking bread, boiling porridge, and the occasional tang of cured fish from the river. Children's laughter echoed from a distant field where some were already chasing one another, oblivious to the chill, their boots crunching on the frozen ground.
The young girl crouched at the edge of the frozen river, her breath forming little clouds in the crisp morning air. The sun was just beginning to stretch its golden fingers over the treetops, scattering light across the ice like shattered glass. Her small fingers traced the patterns of frost that curled along the riverbank, fascinated by the delicate spirals. She had always been captivated by such details, the way the world seemed to hold secrets in its smallest corners.
This morning, she had been sent to fetch water from the river before the sun was fully awake. The frost crunched under her boots, a satisfying, brittle sound that reminded her of sugar cookies baking in the hearth. She paused, tilting her head to listen to the village waking behind her—the soft murmur of the smith tending his forge, the distant clatter of a cart, the occasional call of a bird perched in a bare birch. Even with all the life around her, there was a hush in the forest, a kind of quiet that held the world still for a heartbeat or two.
The village itself was tucked into a valley ringed with dense forests and jagged hills, its wooden houses clustered haphazardly along winding dirt paths. Smoke curled from the chimneys, carrying the faint smell of baked bread and smoked fish, mingling with the earthy scent of moss and wildflowers. Children ran between the stalls, laughing, their voices carrying across the open square where merchants hawked cloth, tools, and dried herbs. Taika's eyes flitted across the scene, noting the subtle tension in the air: a handful of older men had gathered near the edges of the square, speaking in hushed tones, casting furtive glances toward the hilltop where the chieftain's watchtower stood. There was unease, faint but persistent, the kind that slipped into the corners of everyday life unnoticed by most, and Taika, though only seventeen, could feel it prickling at the edges of her awareness.
Her grandfather, Aapo, the village chief, called her over. She rose, brushing pine needles from her braided hair. As she approached, he bent slightly, placing a hand on her shoulder and giving it a reassuring squeeze. "Taika," he said, voice steady and warm, "your eyes wander too far. Mind the river; it can be tricky even on a calm day."
She smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling, and nodded. "I was just… watching," she replied, her gaze flitting back to the water. The reflection of the clouds stretched and twisted across the surface, and for a moment, it seemed as if the sky itself had dipped into the river.
Taika followed him back toward the dwelling they shared, a sturdy cabin of hewn logs with a roof of sod and straw. Inside, the smell of dried herbs—rosemary, thyme, and a hint of juniper—mingled with the lingering aroma of yesterday's fire. Her grandfather moved with deliberate care, setting a kettle to boil and lifting a small bundle of fresh bread from the counter. He hummed a tune low in his throat, a melody Taika knew by heart, and she watched him with quiet fascination. There was a rhythm to his movements, a slow choreography of gestures perfected over decades, and it made the world seem safe, stable.
The fire crackled low in the hearth, sending flickering shadows dancing across the walls of their cabin. Taika munched on the last piece of bread, feeling the warmth of the tea seep into her fingers. Her grandfather leaned back in his sturdy chair, his hands folded over his chest, eyes fixed on the fire. After a long silence, he spoke, his voice soft but carrying the weight of experience.
"You know, Taika," he began, "the seasons are never still. Winter will always yield to Spring, and Spring, in turn, bows to Summer. Even the oldest tree must shed its leaves before it can grow anew. Change is never to be feared, child, for to lose is only to gain something else in time."
Taika frowned, her brow knitting as her gaze fell to a few small bundles piled neatly in a corner of the room. Her stomach tightened, a sudden, prickling panic shooting through her chest. Were these her things? Packed already? Had her grandfather decided it was time for her to leave the village? She took a small step toward them, her voice rising in anxious disbelief.
"Grandfather," she blurted, her voice catching slightly, "I—I don't intend to marry or leave anytime soon! I can stay here. I can take care of you! You don't have to worry about me like that yet!" Her chest heaved as she gestured to the bundles, the fear of losing her home tightening around her throat like an icy hand.
His gaze softened, the corners of his eyes crinkling with warmth. "Taika, my precious granddaughter," he said, voice gentle yet firm, "I would never cast you away. You are not something to be sent into the wind. These bundles… they are not for leaving. They are for preparing. For living. For experiencing what the world has waiting for you, and for us, together."
Taika blinked, her panic ebbing slowly as she tried to make sense of his words. "Preparing…?" she murmured, uncertainty still threading her voice.
"Yes," Her grandfather replied with a small smile, leaning back into his chair once more. "Now that Winter has released its hold and Spring welcomes the world, it is time we take a journey together. A short trip, to see beyond the village, to feel the thawed soil beneath our feet and breathe the fresh wind over the hills."
Taika's shoulders relaxed almost immediately, relief flooding through her like a sudden warm current. "A trip?" she repeated, voice brightening, her eyes sparkling. "Really? Oh! That sounds wonderful! How many guards will be going with us?" Her heartbeat quickened, a blush rising faintly across her cheeks as she added, almost shyly, "Do you think… Rasmus will come?"
He chuckled softly, the sound warm and unhurried, a melody of quiet mirth. "Oh, Taika," he said, shaking his head with a grin, "this will be a very short trip. Just you and me. No need for a guard detail this time. The forest is quiet now, and I think it is time we enjoy it, just the two of us, without distractions."
Taika's eyes widened in surprise, then quickly softened into a delighted grin. She took a small step forward, unable to hide her giddy excitement. "Just the two of us?" she repeated, almost breathless. Her mind raced with possibilities—wandering through meadows, listening to the river, finding hidden glens and secret paths. A warmth spread through her chest at the thought of spending uninterrupted time with her grandfather, the man who had always been her anchor, her protector, and her closest friend.
She spun on her heels, glancing once more at the bundles, then back at Aapo. "Then let's go soon! I can't wait! Oh, the forest must be blooming with new life, and we can—oh, we can explore the riverbanks! Maybe we'll even find the foxes near the ridge!"
Aapo's smile deepened, and he shook his head, though his eyes were soft with amusement and fondness. "Yes, Taika," he said, "we will see the world awaken together. But first… finish your tea, child. Even Spring mornings are chilly until the sun climbs high. And then, we will be off—just you and me."
Taika, still buzzing with excitement, carefully set her cup on the table and ran a hand over the top of one of her bundles, feeling a thrill of anticipation. For the first time in weeks, the faint weight of unease that had lingered in the village square seemed to melt away. Spring was here, her grandfather was beside her, and a new adventure—small, intimate, and entirely theirs—was waiting just beyond the cabin's doorway.
Taika's eyes lit up as she rifled through the bundles again, her fingers brushing over neatly folded blankets, a coiled rope, and a small canvas tent. Her heartbeat quickened at the thought of sleeping under the open sky, surrounded by the awakening forest. She clutched a bundle to her chest and spun toward her grandfather, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet.
"Grandfather! Where are we going to camp?" she asked eagerly, her voice a mixture of curiosity and impatience. "Is it by the river? Or maybe near the old pine grove? Oh, I hope there's a clearing so we can see the stars!" Her cheeks flushed with excitement, and she held the bundle tighter, her mind already racing with all the things she wanted to do.
Aapo hummed thoughtfully, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he observed her bubbling enthusiasm. He set the kettle aside, smoothing the wrinkles of his worn tunic with a slow, deliberate hand. "Edur Mountain," he said finally, voice calm but carrying the weight of certainty. "There's a clearing not far from the eastern ridge, just beyond the old birch grove. That will be your camp for tonight."
Taika's brow furrowed, and she stepped back, glancing up at him with wide, uncertain eyes. "I—I'm going to hike up there by myself?" she asked, her tone a mix of awe and trepidation. "What if I get lost, or if something happens along the trail? It's steep, and the forest… the forest is full of places to stumble."
Aapo gave a soft, amused chuckle, reaching out to ruffle her hair gently. "Nonsense, child," he said, his voice firm yet kind. "You are capable. The path is clear enough, and the mountain is not so cruel as you imagine. I will join you by evening, once your camp is set. You will have everything you need to make it safe and comfortable."
Taika bit her lip, still unsure, glancing at the rope and tent that now seemed to weigh heavier in her hands than they had before. "But… what if you can't find me?" she asked, her voice lowering slightly. "Or if something happens to you along the way? I don't… I don't want anything to happen to you either."
The elder's eyes narrowed, not in anger, but in playful chastisement, and he set the kettle down with a soft thump on the table. "Taika, implying that I might falter like some frail elder is unbecoming of you. I am hardy—still more than capable of keeping pace with the mountain trails. Past my prime? Perhaps. Too weak for a simple hike? Never."
She flushed, caught between embarrassment and lingering concern. "I… I didn't mean—"
"You meant well, but remember your lessons," he interrupted softly, the twinkle in his eye softening again. "You must respect the mountain, yes—but respect me, too. I am not yet a burden to be feared."
Taika nodded, a mix of admiration and relief washing over her. "Alright… alright. I'll do it. I'll hike up there, set up camp… and wait for you." Her voice held determination now, mingled with an undercurrent of excitement, as if the mountain itself had dared her to rise to the challenge.
Taika's ears turned pink, and she looked down at the bundle in her hands, the fear and hesitation mingling with excitement. She could picture him now, striding up the mountain with measured steps, carrying only the essentials, moving with the quiet strength that had always comforted her. And yet, her pulse refused to settle completely.
Taika exhaled slowly, feeling a mixture of apprehension and exhilaration. She hefted the bundles carefully onto her back, checking straps and knots, peering through the window at the first flickers of sunlight stretching across the valley. Edur Mountain loomed in the distance, its rugged slopes dotted with dark pines and rocky outcroppings. She felt her heart flutter, a heady mix of nervousness and anticipation. Today, she thought, everything would feel different—the air sharper, the forest alive with possibility, and the path forward both daunting and thrilling.
"Alright, grandfather," she said finally, lifting her chin with determination. "I'll make it to the clearing. I'll set up camp, and I'll wait for you. Just… don't be late." A small, defiant grin tugged at her lips. "I can handle it. I'm ready."
Aapo chuckled again, a warm rumble that seemed to shake the dust motes in the sunlit cabin. "That's my girl," he said. "Now go. The mountain is calling, and it waits for no one—not even its most cautious granddaughter."
Taika took a deep breath, swung the bundles onto her shoulders more confidently, and stepped outside. The sun had climbed higher now, brushing the tops of the trees with gold. The air smelled of pine resin and damp earth, carrying the faint hum of the river below. Her heart raced with the thrill of the unknown, but deep down, she trusted the words of her grandfather and the steady rhythm of his wisdom. With one last glance toward the cabin and the familiar figure standing in the doorway, she began her climb toward Edur Mountain, each step a mix of excitement, determination, and the faint whisper of adventure brushing against her senses.
Her grandfather's presence, even in words, settled the fluttering anxiety in her chest. She glanced once more at the carefully prepared bundles, then toward the distant slopes of Edur Mountain, already imagining the path she would take. The air smelled fresher, sharper, full of potential. The sun warmed her back as if nudging her forward, encouraging the first steps of the adventure she had been anticipating. Her heart beat faster—not just from excitement, but from the thrill of independence, the tiny, intoxicating taste of stepping beyond the familiar, even if only for a little while.
The morning settled over the village like a warm breath, carrying the scent of thawing soil, damp pine, and distant rivers shrugging off winter's grip. Taika stood beside her horse—a sturdy, mottled gray mare named Kuurra—tightening the last strap of her bundles. Kuurra flicked an ear, patient and accustomed to Taika's steady fussing. The bundles thumped softly as she secured them to the saddle: rolled blankets, neatly wrapped provisions, a small toolkit, a tin water flask, and the camping gear her grandfather had so carefully prepared.
Aapo watched from a few steps away, leaning lightly on his walking stick, though he didn't truly need it. His fur-lined coat hung open despite the lingering chill, and his eyes—bright and startlingly youthful despite his age—studied her with a calm depth. There was pride there, and something else too. Something quieter. Something Taika couldn't name.
She patted Kuurra's flank, brushing stray strands of her hair behind her ear as the wind tugged at them. "All right, girl," she murmured to the horse. "Just a short trip. Easy ground. Nothing to worry about."
Kuurra snorted, as if reminding her who was the calm one between them.
Taika turned to her grandfather with a wide grin. "Everything's packed! I'll be at Edur's clearing by early afternoon. I'll make camp and get the fire going before you even reach the foot of the mountain."
Aapo continued watching her, the faintest crease appearing on his brow. Then he stepped closer, hands disappearing into the inner pocket of his coat. "Before you go," he said quietly, "there is one more thing I want you to have."
He pulled out a small cloth bundle—soft, worn, wrapped with care. Taika blinked in surprise as he placed it into her hands. The weight was light, delicate, the size of a closed fist. When she unwound the cloth, the breath caught in her throat.
"This was your mother's," Aapo said, his voice gentler than wind-blown snow. "A stone born of moonlight and river-water. A magic stone, Taika. Just like her." He paused, then smiled a bit. "Just like you."
The locket was cool when she touched it, then warmed beneath her fingertips as if responding to her skin. The faint glow within the stone pulsed once, subtle but undeniable. Her heart fluttered strange and quick in her chest.
"I thought… you were keeping this," Taika whispered. "For something important."
"I was," Aapo replied. "This is important."
He lifted the chain and fastened it around her neck, his fingers steady despite the tremor age sometimes gave him. The locket settled against her collarbone, warm now, almost reassuring. She curled her hand around it instinctively.
Aapo stepped back, eyes soft but shadowed by something she couldn't name. "There is one more thing I must tell you, Taika. Listen closely."
She straightened, sensing the shift in the air.
"No matter what happens," he said, "even if I am late—do not go down from the mountain. Not until I join you, not until I am standing beside you. No matter what you hear, no matter what you see, and no matter who calls for you. Promise me that."
A pulse of unease rippled through her chest. The words carried a weight that did not belong to harmless spring outings. Her stomach tightened. "Why… why would you be late? What do you mean 'no matter what happens'?"
Aapo smiled, but Taika could tell it was the kind of smile meant to soothe rather than reveal. "I'm only being cautious. The mountain can play tricks with time and distance in the spring thaw. You might reach the clearing sooner than expected. I might need to take another path. Nothing more."
He said it lightly, but something in his eyes—something tightly held—slipped through the cracks.
Her intuition thrummed like a struck string, telling her he was hiding something. Something real. Something important; but his gaze was warm, his posture steady, and his words gentle— and trust was a habit she'd never learned to question.
Taika nodded slowly, pressing her hand against the locket. "I promise," she nodded, even as unease curled around her ribs. "I'll stay put. I won't go down without you."
The path to Edur Mountain wound upward through rolling hills still dotted with patches of lingering snow. The air was crisp, tinged with the scent of melting frost and the rich earth beneath it. Kuurra trotted steadily, sure-footed on the soft mud and scattered rocks, while Taika adjusted her bundles with one hand and held the reins in the other. Her eyes, wide with curiosity and the thrill of the open trail, kept drifting toward the jagged outline of Edur Mountain rising against the horizon. Its peaks were already capped with snow, even as Spring stretched her fingers over the valley below.
Her village liked it that way— It had always been a mountain of many faces, depending on who told the tale.
She remembered one of the first stories her grandfather had ever told her—a soft-spoken one, murmured to her when she was barely tall enough to climb onto his knee. If a weary traveler sought shelter on Edur, he had said, the mountain would listen. If their heart was kind and their intentions true, a spirit would meet them at the treeline, cloaked in mist, and lead them to safety. A benevolent guardian, patient and ancient.
As Taika rode, she could almost imagine them now—shy flickers of pale light weaving between the fir trees, guiding lost wanderers deeper into the mountain's protective embrace. She found herself smiling. The thought warmed her, even as a breeze came down from the peak carrying a lingering bite of winter.
But there were other tales too.
Some said Edur was not merely home to a protective spirit—it was the spirit. The entire mountain, from its icy crown to its deep mineral heart, was a living presence. It shielded the village from the tempests that ravaged the coast, rising like a giant between them and the full force of nature's fury. Storm clouds diverted around its slopes; lightning rarely struck near it; and the worst gales were weakened as if swallowed by cold stone.
Of course, adults insisted those stories were just poetic ways of saying the mountain's size affected wind patterns. But children knew better. Everything in the world had a spirit, Taika had believed fiercely as a girl. And Edur had simply been a very, very large one.
There were darker folkstories too, the kind older children whispered for thrills—warnings of wanderers who went too far up the peak, past where the spirits wished them to tread. But Taika never lingered on those. Her grandfather dismissed them as tales invented by bored youths and overeager storytellers trying to add drama to festival nights.
Still… as her horse's hooves thudded steadily against the dirt road and the shadow of Edur grew deeper around her, she found herself glancing toward the treeline more often. The mountain felt present today. Watchful. As though observing her approach with a silent, expectant patience.
"Just nerves," she muttered to herself, patting her horse's neck.
Yet the unease her grandfather's last words had left behind stirred again—like a pebble shifting under water.
Even if I'm late, don't come down until I'm with you… no matter what.
She frowned, trying to shake it off. Aapo always spoke in riddles, always loved making simple instructions sound like ancient proverbs. There was nothing unusual about that.
Still… she was visiting a mountain wrapped in spirits and stories. If there was ever a place where intuition mattered, where strange feelings weren't entirely unreasonable, Edur was it.
Taika inhaled, steadying herself. The air smelled clean—pine sap, cold stone, melting frost.
"Spirits of Edur," she murmured playfully under her breath, "if you're real, keep an eye on me. I'm only here to camp, not to trespass."
Her voice faded into the quiet, and the quiet seemed to hum back—soft, almost welcoming.
She straightened in her saddle, feeling a small thrill despite herself.
Whatever the mountain held—whatever truths or secrets—she would soon find out.
It was a day's ride before she finally reached Edur mountain, its slopes steepening and the air growing sharper, filled with the scent of pine sap and thawing stone. Taika guided Kuurra along a narrow side path, hoping to take a shortcut through a stand of low birch that promised a gentler climb. Her heart thrummed with excitement, the stories of Edur's protective spirits mingling with the tangible thrill of being alone on the mountain.
But the mountain's calm was deceptive.
A sudden whistle cut through the morning air, sharp and metallic, and before Taika could react, arrows hissed past her, burying themselves into the tree trunks and dirt around her. The horse reared, snorting and stamping, tossing Taika violently against the saddle. Her hands tightened on the reins, but Kuurra bolted, weaving through the birches as if trying to escape the invisible threat.
Her mind raced. Think. Move. Don't panic. She scrambled to her knees, fingers clutching at the dirt and roots, trying to stay unseen. Her locket pressed against her chest, warm and insistent, as if reminding her that she wasn't powerless. She realized that climbing back onto Kuurra was impossible—at least for now—but the horse was near, ready to bolt at any signal, a potential ally if she could keep her wits.
The attackers split, one coming straight for her, another attempting to corral Kuurra. The one heading toward her was taller, broad-shouldered, and wore a scarf that masked his features completely. He reached down, hand extended, fingers brushing the sleeve of her coat.
Taika's heart leapt in terror and adrenaline. She grabbed a loose branch from the slope, swinging it instinctively, narrowly deflecting the hand. The man cursed, yanking back, while Kuurra whinnied and pawed the ground, tossing the second attacker backward with a sudden stamp of her hoof.
Her chest heaved, sweat and dirt mingling on her face. She knew she had seconds to act, to either fight or flee further up the slope where the terrain might favor her knowledge of the mountain. With a shaky breath, she pressed herself against the side of the slope, trying to make herself as small and as quick as possible. The attackers were relentless, closing in, their intentions clear.
Somewhere in the chaos, one thought rang louder than the rest: she could not let them take her—not her life, not her freedom. Her pulse thundered in her ears, every muscle coiled, every nerve firing. And even as the slope threatened to betray her again, she knew she had to keep moving, to climb, to run, to survive.
Her fingers went to the hilt of her sword. It had always felt like an extension of her arm, but now it seemed impossibly heavy after the tumble. She took a deep breath and whispered the small invocation she had learned long ago, calling the energy of her blood and her locket into her limbs. Her magic tingled, spreading warmth through her arms and shoulders, flowing into the sword's hilt. The weight vanished, as if the blade were no more than a feather in her grasp. Speed coursed through her, muscles suddenly nimble and sharp, her senses sharpening in tandem.
She swung it at the first attacker who lunged, aiming not for his body but for the space before him. The blade met nothing but air—but the magic surged through it, carrying her force in a violent gust that slammed him backward into a tangle of branches and loose stones. He stumbled, cursed, and tried to recover, but the momentum from her strike sent him sprawling, sprawling farther down the slope than he expected.
This was not a sword meant for cutting flesh, not yet. It was an extension of her body, a medium for her power. She swung it in a wide arc, not to slice but to push, to send a concussive force toward the first attacker. The energy flared along the blade, amplifying her strength and speed. The man who lunged toward her flew backward as the invisible wave struck him, boots skidding against the slope as he struggled to regain balance.
Kuurra whinnied and sidestepped instinctively as another arrow streaked past, and Taika pivoted, swinging again. Each strike didn't cut flesh but pushed with the concentrated force of her magic, knocking attackers off balance or back against the slope. She could feel the power thrumming through her arms, through the sword, a living extension of herself that let her react faster than her eyes alone could track.
Then the second volley of arrows came, sharp and precise. She barely had time to dodge two before a third clipped close enough to singe her sleeve. Instantly, her mind shifted. She could feel the magic bending, reaching toward a new purpose. She concentrated, drawing a shimmering, translucent shield into existence around herself and Kuurra. The arrows thudded harmlessly against it, splintering into the dirt, leaving her and the horse untouched.
But almost immediately, she felt the sword's weight return, heavy and solid in her hands. Without her magic amplifying it, it was just steel. Not useless, but clumsy, slow—a reminder that her power could only serve one function at a time. She swung again, trying to anticipate the attackers' moves without the magical speed she had relied on moments ago, and cursed under her breath.
She had to choose: Strike with her sword and push her attackers back, agile and forceful, or maintain her protective shield and keep the arrows from finding their mark. The dance was relentless: one moment ducking a volley, the next swinging her sword in bursts of magical force that sent attackers tumbling. Each strike reverberated through her arms and chest, every impact shaking Kuurra as she stomped and whinnied, instinctively backing her toward higher ground.
Taika's focus narrowed to a single rhythm: strike, push, dodge, shield, advance. She adjusted her stance, feeling the mountain's slope beneath her boots, sensing the terrain as part of her body. When she swung, the shockwave of magic rattled her enemies, hurling them against tree trunks or knocking them off their precarious footing. When she raised her shield, the arrows fell harmlessly into its invisible barrier, glancing off like stones bouncing on water.
Every heartbeat demanded a choice: sword or shield, offense or defense. She could feel her energy draining, muscles quivering under the strain, but the locket at her chest throbbed in time with her pulse, a quiet warmth that grounded her. She wasn't fighting to kill; she was defending herself and Kuurra, making space to survive, to climb higher, to reach the clearing her grandfather had instructed her to find.
Her attackers were persistent, but with every magical strike, every burst of force, Taika carved a narrow corridor through the thicket. Her breaths came in ragged bursts, but her movements were precise, fluid, calculated. Each swing was deliberate, each shield a measured effort. And despite the chaos, she began to feel a rhythm—a terrifying, exhilarating harmony between her body, her sword, and the surge of power that flowed like lightning through her.
The mountain loomed above, the trail winding upward. Somewhere in the near distance, she could glimpse the faint light of the clearing, a promise of temporary safety. She forced herself to keep moving, each choice exacting, each moment critical, as her magic and her will became one in the desperate defense of herself and her horse.
Taika's muscles trembled as she struggled against the bandit who had finally managed to close the distance. She had been darting between offense and defense for what felt like hours, swinging her sword in bursts of magical force one moment and conjuring a shimmering shield the next, but their tactics had begun to wear her down. They were clever, coordinated, and relentless—while some loosed arrows from the cover of trees, others pressed forward to keep her from retreating. Each time she raised her shield to block the deadly volley, a hand would dart out to grab at her arm, a boot would sweep against her leg, forcing her to stumble.
Taika's muscles ached, and her lungs burned as she struggled to fend off the remaining bandits. Their numbers had thinned, but each man now moved with precision and coordination, a tact she hadn't expected from their earlier chaotic charge. Some stayed at range, letting arrows fly with unerring aim, while others pressed forward, sidestepping or ducking behind natural cover to find openings, forcing her to constantly switch her magic between sword and shield. The rhythm of her defense became exhausting.
She swung with every ounce of her magical strength, forcing back any attacker who got too close, but as soon as she conjured a shield to intercept a flurry of arrows, one of the remaining men slipped through the narrow gap at the edge of her defense. He grabbed her arm, yanking her toward him and twisting sharply. Pain flared up her shoulder and down her arm, making her fingers loosen around the sword hilt. The blade slipped from her grip, falling uselessly to the dirt. She twisted, tried to push him back with sheer force, but without her magic to channel through her weapon, she couldn't generate the knockback wave.
Her stomach sank. She was trapped, vulnerable, and breathing hard as the man restrained her with a sinister grin.
"Finally caught the little girl," the man sneered, pressing his forearm into her shoulder. "Your grandfather better have a damn good reason for being late, or this will be unpleasant for him. Old man Aapo should hold his temper… unless he wants anything unfortunate to happen to his precious granddaughter." He laughed harshly, a sound that grated against the tense silence of the mountain. "You know… he should just give up his seat as chief already. Make way for a new dawn, a change for the village. Let the past go, old man. Let the young ones take the lead."
Then came the sounds. A thudding, heavy, unrelenting noise that reverberated through the slope—men crashing against rocks, a grunt, a thump, a sound like a body being hurled through the air. One of her captor's allies let out a strangled cry. Another scream, then silence, then a fresh series of thuds and collisions.
Taika's heart skipped a beat. She thought—Grandpa? But the sounds were wrong: too fast, too heavy, too precise. She could hear the crunch of boots against rock, the force of blows that were nothing like Aapo's measured strikes.
Her captor's eyes narrowed, a cocky grin returning to his face. "Ah! So that's him, is it? Old man Aapo coming to save you? Well, I hope he enjoys himself, because there's a limit to what patience can endure!" He shook his head, chuckling. "Better not tire yourself out, old man, or something… unfortunate might just happen to your granddaughter!"
Then the figure appeared at the edge of the thicket, stepping forward from the chaos, and all his bravado faltered.
The man before them was tall—towering even—easily over six feet, broad-shouldered, and calm, with a bemused, almost lazy expression that belied the devastating force evident in the thudding and crashing sounds that followed him. Light-skinned, blonde hair, features strikingly handsome in an unassuming way. Nothing about him screamed danger, nothing except…
Those ruby red eyes—
And the arrow sticking from his shoulder.
The captors froze, caught between awe and horror, every smirk fading.
"My name," the stranger said slowly, his voice calm but carrying the weight of absolute authority, "is not Aapo. And the young lady you are holding… is definitely not my granddaughter."