The memory of Bjorn's words, his rough diagrams etched in snow, burned in Kael's mind. The joint. The heart. A pause. Not strength, but cunning. These were the only lessons Kael carried from his brief, shared meal with the Viking hunter. He was alone again in the vast, unforgiving peaks, Elian strapped to his back, but the knowledge, a cold, hard tool, now resided within him.
Days turned into a new, brutal routine. Kael would leave his hidden rock crevice before dawn, melting into the grey-blue pre-light. He would spend hours, sometimes entire days, stalking. Not just any prey, but the specific, tougher beasts that roamed the surrounding peaks and valleys. The ones Bjorn had spoken of, the ones that offered more meat, thicker hides, more challenge.
His first target was a Scavenger Wolf. Not as large as a Razorback Boar, but still a formidable predator, its teeth capable of tearing flesh. Kael found its tracks near a frozen waterfall, a winding trail that spoke of its habits. He remembered Bjorn's concise lesson: know your prey. He also remembered observing the Vikings from a distance, noting their quiet patience, their understanding of animal movement.
Kael followed. For hours. He moved with a new kind of stealth, a predatory patience that belied his age. He wasn't just hiding; he was flowing with the wind, blending with the shifting shadows of the rocks. His bare feet, toughened by months in the ruins and days in the mountains, moved silently over crunching snow and ice. His single eye tracked every sign: a snapped twig, a faint scent, a disturbed patch of snow.
He found the wolf's den, a shallow cave in a sheer rock face. Too dangerous to enter. He found its hunting path, a narrow ledge overlooking a drop. A choke point. Like the Mountain-Goat, but different. He recalled the frustration of his first failed hunt. This time, he would be ready.
He waited. For a full day and a night. The cold gnawed at him, a familiar enemy. Elian whimpered occasionally, a soft, protesting sound, but mostly slept, swaddled tightly in scavenged furs. Kael held him close, sharing his body warmth, his resolve hardening with each of Elian's soft breaths.
When the Scavenger Wolf finally returned, it was tired, its belly empty. It moved with a cautious tread, sniffing the wind.
Kael struck. Not from the front. Not with a shout. But from above, a silent, desperate drop from the ledge, aiming for the wolf's back. He wasn't heavy enough to crush it, but his surprise was absolute.
He landed on the wolf's back, a small, rag-wrapped burden. The wolf shrieked, a furious sound, bucking wildly. Kael clung on, his small hands digging into its fur. He remembered Bjorn's efficient movements, the precision of a killing blow.
He plunged the rusted blade. Again and again. Not randomly. But aimed for the neck. For the spine. Where the vital points were. He was clumsy, his small body jostling, but his intent was lethal.
The wolf thrashed, snapping its powerful jaws, but Kael was too close, too desperate. Blood, hot and thick, gushed onto Kael's hands, soaking into his meager clothes. The wolf's struggles weakened. Its shriek became a gurgle. It collapsed, its body twitching, then still.
Kael lay there, sprawled on the dead wolf, his chest heaving. Elian, startled by the brief, violent struggle, was crying. Kael pulled him closer, his raw hand absently stroking his brother's head. He looked at the dead wolf. A substantial kill. Meat. Hide.
He didn't feel anything beyond the cold satisfaction of survival. This was what it took. This was the price.
He worked quickly, his small, bloodied hands following the mental images of Bjorn's methodical butchery. He flayed the hide, clumsy but effective. He butchered the meat, separating edible portions from organs. He stripped the bones clean for marrow. Every part was precious. He filled his scavenged satchel with the best cuts of meat, the thickest part of the hide.
He found another small, remote cave system that night. He built a tiny, almost smokeless fire, using dried moss and animal fat. The scent of cooking meat, a stark contrast to the acrid stench of Dirtspire, filled the cramped space. He fed Elian, holding pieces of warm, tender meat to his mouth, watching his brother suckle and swallow with a hunger Kael deeply understood.
He ate his own portion, slowly, deliberately. The warmth spread through his body, a temporary solace against the pervasive chill.
Over the next few weeks, Kael honed his hunting skills. He became a silent, efficient shadow in the mountains. He stalked Ice-Hounds, their fur prized for warmth. He learned to trap Mountain-Lynx, whose swift movements made them difficult prey. His body grew stronger, leaner. His movements, silent as drifting snow.
He continued to observe the Viking camp from a distance. He saw their hunting parties move, their drills, their communal life. He absorbed their methods, their efficiency, their understanding of the mountain. He did not approach. He preferred the solitude. The beasts of the mountain were predictable. Humans were not.
The Vikings, on their occasional distant hunts, would sometimes spot traces of him: a freshly killed carcass, butchered with an unnerving, small precision. A faint, single-eyed track in the snow, leading away from danger. They would exchange glances, a murmur passing between them. "The ghost-child," some would whisper. "The one who leaves only death."
They didn't fear him, not truly. They were Vikings, fearless hunters themselves. But they were wary. Curious. This child was an anomaly. A human, yet moving through their territory with the silent, deadly efficiency of a lone wolf. A survivor, beyond anything they had ever encountered.
Kael didn't care for their whispers. He cared only for Elian. His brother, fed and warm, was his only purpose. He was earning his way. One bloody kill at a time. The Frostfang Ravager still loomed in his mind, a distant, terrifying goal. But now, it felt a little less impossible. He was learning. He was surviving. He was slowly, brutally, becoming the hunter he needed to be.