The Northern Mountains did not yield easily. Every breath Kael took was a struggle, his lungs burning from the thin, frigid air. His injured leg, though braced by the crude splint, ached with every movement, a constant, dull protest against his relentless will. Elian, nestled securely in his sling, was Kael's anchor, the silent reason for every agonizing step.
Kael knew he could not sustain their survival on roots and occasional small game. The gnawing hunger was constant. He needed larger prey. He needed the beasts that roamed these peaks, the shaggy, powerful creatures he had seen the Vikings hunt.
He had observed their methods. How they stalked. How they cornered. How they delivered a final, decisive strike. But he was not a hulking Viking warrior. He was a child, barely three years old, wielding a rusted blade that felt too heavy even when held.
His first attempt was against a Mountain-Goat, a creature with thick, curling horns and a surprisingly agile step. It grazed on a sparse patch of lichen high on a rocky outcrop. Kael spent hours stalking it, crawling through jagged scree, enduring the biting wind, his single eye never leaving his target.
He found its path down a narrow, perilous trail. He planned. A clumsy, child-like plan. He would wait at a choke point, where the trail narrowed to a single file.
He waited. For hours. The cold seeped into his bones, numbing his fingers and toes. Elian whimpered, a soft, protesting sound, but Kael held him tighter, whispering comfort he didn't feel.
When the Mountain-Goat finally came, Kael sprang. Not with speed, but with a desperate, lunging ferocity. He swung the rusted blade.
It bounced off the creature's thick hide with a dull thud. The Mountain-Goat, startled, bellowed. Its horns lowered, and it charged, a blur of muscle and fury.
Kael scrambled back, clutching Elian. He tripped. The Mountain-Goat rushed past, its hooves missing him by inches, disappearing down the treacherous trail.
He lay there, panting, dust and rock shards clinging to his face. Failure. The hunger roared in his stomach. The mountain had laughed at his meager strength.
But Kael did not give up. He simply watched the direction the Mountain-Goat had gone. He learned. Too fast. Too strong head-on.
He spent days studying other creatures. The Rock-Crawler, a multi-limbed insectoid that scuttled across sheer rock faces, its chitinous shell impervious to his blade. The Ice-Bear, a massive, white-furred predator that roamed the lower valleys, its roar echoing like thunder. He watched from a distance, observing their movements, their habits, their weaknesses.
His body grew leaner, tougher. His movements more precise. He learned to conserve energy. To blend into the grey-brown rock. To become another part of the unforgiving landscape.
He tried again. And again. Each attempt ended in failure, or a desperate escape. He learned the bitter taste of defeat, the burn of exertion without reward. Yet, with each failure, he learned a new lesson. He learned patience. He learned stealth. He learned the difference between blind desperation and calculated risk.
One frigid afternoon, a figure watched him.
Bjorn was a hunter. A Viking warrior in his prime. His beard was braided with silver and iron beads, his face weathered by a thousand mountain storms. He was stalking a Razorback Boar, a formidable beast with tusks like sharpened steel.
He moved silently, a shadow against the snow-dusted rock. He had been tracking the boar for a day, waiting for the perfect moment.
Then, he saw it.
A small figure, no bigger than his axe handle, crawling through a narrow pass. It was a child. Alone. Carrying an infant.
Bjorn froze. Curiosity warred with his hunter's instinct. Children did not survive out here. Not alone. Not for long.
He watched.
The child, with unnatural patience, positioned itself near a hidden crevice. It was waiting. For the Razorback Boar.
Bjorn raised an eyebrow. Madness. The boar would tear the child apart. No human, no matter how skilled, would try to take a Razorback head-on like that, especially not a child.
The boar lumbered into view. A massive, grunting beast, its tusks gleaming.
The child, Kael, moved. Not with the practiced grace of an Ascendant, nor the raw power of a Beastkin. But with an abrupt, desperate lunge. He clutched a rusted blade.
Bjorn watched, expecting to see the child crushed.
But Kael didn't attack head-on. He plunged the blade into the ground just as the boar charged. The boar stumbled, its hoof snagging on the blade, losing its balance. It was a clumsy, desperate move. But it worked.
The boar roared in fury. Its tusks tore at the air where Kael had been a moment before. Kael had rolled, his small body a blur of dirt and rags, coming up against a rock face.
The boar recovered, its eyes bloodshot with rage. It turned, snorting, ready to finish the tiny nuisance.
Bjorn saw the child's stance. Not fear. Not even desperation. Just a terrifying stillness. A focus that shouldn't exist in something so young. The child's single eye, wide and unnervingly clear, fixed on the enraged beast.
Kael didn't charge. He waited. He watched the boar's movements. Its lumbering turns. Its heavy, predictable charges. He saw the weak points in its defense. Not where to strike with power, but where to dodge. Where to hide.
The boar, powerful as it was, began to tire. Its charges grew slower. Its snorts came in ragged gasps. It was fighting a phantom. A tireless, relentless shadow that simply refused to be caught.
Kael, despite his exhaustion, pressed his advantage. He ducked under another charge, his hands finding purchase on the boar's rough hide. He clung on, a small, desperate parasite. He scrabbled, trying to find a vulnerable spot.
He found it. A tender patch of skin just behind the boar's ear, where the hide was thinner. He plunged the rusted blade in. Not deep enough to kill. But enough to hurt. Enough to enrage.
The boar shrieked, a sound of agony and frustration. It bucked. Kael was thrown clear, landing hard on the icy ground. His head hit rock. Black spots danced.
Bjorn saw the child lie still. He expected him to stay down. The boar was moving to finish him.
But Kael moved. A shuddering, slow movement. He pushed himself up. His small body trembling, but his single eye still fixed on the beast. He would not stop.
Bjorn made his decision. This was no ordinary child. This was something forged by the mountains themselves.
He moved from his hidden vantage point. His axe, a polished gleam of steel, was already in his hand. He stepped between Kael and the boar.
The Razorback, startled by the new, large presence, spun. It saw Bjorn. A true warrior. Its rage momentarily forgotten, replaced by caution.
Bjorn didn't speak. He simply raised his axe. One swift, practiced swing. The axe cleaved through the boar's neck. The beast roared, a final, wet gurgle, and collapsed, its massive body thudding onto the icy ground.
Silence fell, broken only by the whistling wind and Kael's ragged breaths.
Kael, clutching Elian, stared at Bjorn. His single eye, still blazing with the unyielding will to fight, watched the towering Viking. There was no gratitude. No fear. His small body tensed. He shifted his weight, his grip tightening on the rusted blade. He was ready to fight again. Ready to defend Elian even against this new, formidable threat. His instincts screamed caution.
Bjorn watched him, a flicker of something like respect, and perhaps a touch of awe, in his weathered eyes. He saw the child's stance, the desperate readiness. He had seen that look in cornered wolves. But never in a human child, so young, so utterly devoid of power. He knew what he was looking at: not defiance born of arrogance, but of pure, unbending will.
"Peace, child," Bjorn rumbled, his voice deep, like rocks shifting. He held up his empty hand, deliberately lowering his axe to rest against the snow. "This beast is dead. There is enough here for both of us."
He gestured to the massive boar, then to the desolate, freezing peaks around them. "The hunt is hard. You fought well. For one so small." His gaze settled on Kael's single, clear eye, then to the infant bundled against his chest. "Come. The meat will freeze before long. My camp is warm. We will eat."
Kael's eye narrowed. Trust was a foreign concept. Camp meant vulnerability. But the scent of fresh meat, the promise of warmth, the desperate ache in his stomach, the cold shivering of Elian – these were tangible, undeniable needs. The warrior's offer was direct, without deception, practical.
He hesitated for a long moment, assessing the large, stoic man. Bjorn made no move. He simply waited.
Finally, Kael gave a barely perceptible nod. He was not accepting an ally. He was accepting a meal. A temporary reprieve. Another step in the long, brutal fight for survival.
He didn't drop his blade. He simply began the arduous task of dragging the giant boar, guided by Bjorn, towards the distant wisp of smoke. The mountain had offered a new, strange lesson.