The storm rolled in faster than they anticipated.
It wasn't just snow or wind, but a weight—thick in the air, pressing down on their lungs, settling into the roots of the forest like fog soaked in fear. The sky darkened unnaturally, and the trees bent as if whispering to each other, leaves trembling despite the cold having already stripped them bare.
Kieran felt it first. Not in his chest or skin, but deep in the arcane threads that ran through his spine. The pendant against his heart buzzed low and steady, no longer in rhythm with his breath but with something else—something drawing near.
They were halfway between ridges, following the remains of an old hunter's trail when the scent hit them. Rot, musk, something ancient and frozen. Lysa stopped walking. Her bow was already half-raised, but even she didn't know what she was preparing for.
They found the carcass moments later.
An elk, split nearly in half. The ribs were snapped outward, as if something had crushed it from within. Frost clung to the exposed organs, untouched by birds or scavengers. Kieran knelt to examine the wounds and found no bite marks. Only blunt force. Powerful. Precisionless. There were signs of claw drag, as wide as a man's chest.
Lysa didn't need to say anything. Her eyes told him everything.
They needed to run.
But it was already too late.
The first sound wasn't a growl, but the crack of ice breaking. Then came the thunder—footfalls, massive and deliberate, shaking snow loose from the trees above. From the tree line, it emerged like a memory dredged from nightmare.
It was a bear, or what had once been one.
Its body was twice the size of any natural creature. Covered in shaggy white fur mottled with patches of ice and hard, dead flesh. Its eyes were pits of glowing blue—not like wights, but deeper, colder, pulsing with something dark. Thick veins of obsidian ran along its spine, like armor grafted to muscle. Its breath came in visible plumes, unnatural in rhythm—slow, timed, aware.
It didn't roar.
It simply charged.
Kieran barely had time to react. He threw up a shield sigil, a half-formed wall of mana that sparked into place just as the beast barreled into him. The impact shattered the barrier instantly and sent him flying into the snow, breath torn from his lungs.
Lysa fired an arrow—directly into its eye.
It didn't stop.
It turned on her, faster than anything its size should have been able to move. She dove behind a tree, reloading with practiced efficiency, but Kieran didn't have time to watch. He was already moving, glyphs forming along his palm, body aching with every step.
The first blast he threw was a raw kinetic bolt, aimed low—at its legs.
It staggered.
Not much. But enough to slow it.
He seized the opening, lunged forward, and drew Moonfang from its sheath.
The blade pulsed with light the moment it left the scabbard. Runes along the curve flared bright blue. Kieran focused, directing mana into the edge—not wildly, not in panic, but with intent.
The bear turned.
He struck.
The blade sank deep—not into flesh, but through ice—cutting through the corrupted armor of its shoulder like slicing frozen river glass. The creature bellowed then, a sound that shook snow from the sky. It reared up, massive paws arcing down—
He rolled aside, barely escaping the killing blow.
The claws struck the ground and split the earth, carving a trench where his skull had been moments before.
He wasn't fast enough.
Not yet.
The mana was draining quickly. The pendant began to pulse warnings he couldn't hear. Lysa shouted something, but the roar of the beast swallowed it whole.
Kieran circled, panting, blood dripping from a wound he hadn't noticed—his left arm torn just below the shoulder, cloth ripped, skin split. The pain sharpened his focus.
He needed to end it.
Now.
He gathered everything he had left. Focused the mana not into an attack, but into Moonfang. The blade shimmered. The glyphs changed—responding not to speech, but emotion. Memory. Rage. Fear. Resolve.
The bear charged again.
He met it head-on.
He slid beneath its claw, shoulder nearly breaking from the sheer wind force of the swing, and plunged the dagger into the exposed ribcage—straight between the obsidian veins. The runes flared. Light burst outward. The mana ignited inside the creature like wildfire trapped in a glass cage.
The bear convulsed.
Then collapsed.
It didn't thrash. It didn't cry.
It simply stopped.
Kieran stood over it, shaking, gasping for breath. His hand burned from the feedback of the spell. Moonfang's edge was cracked.
But it had worked.
The silence that followed was overwhelming.
Lysa reached him a moment later. She didn't speak. She just took his uninjured arm and guided him to sit. The snow beneath him felt warm now—not from the storm, but from blood. Too much of it.
His body wouldn't move.
So she did instead.
She tore strips from her own cloak, wrapped his arm with steady hands, and pressed her forehead against his when he began to sway. Her voice was quiet, barely louder than a breath.
You're an idiot.
Then she kissed him.
Not out of passion. Not out of romance. Out of fear. Out of anger. Out of something deeper that neither of them had the words to explain.
Their lips met, cold and trembling, and the world faded.
For just a moment, there was no magic, no monsters, no gods.
Just heat.
Just her.
Just the sharp thrum of life refusing to die.
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