The howling wind bit into the skin like knives. Snow fell in wild, unrelenting spirals across the ridges of the Caelthorn Mountains, masking every familiar trail, swallowing every print of man or beast. High above, clouds rolled like the bellies of dragons, black and heavy, threatening another storm.
King Magnus narrowed his eyes against the bitter gust. His thick fur cloak snapped behind him, the royal crest nearly hidden under layers of frost. Behind him, over fifty soldiers trudged through knee-deep snow, their armor dull under the white veil, their breaths short, labored. Some cursed under their breath. Others pressed onward without a word.
The King led them with a stiff spine, his gloved hand gripping the hilt of his sword—not for use, but reassurance.
"We are close," said a hunched voice beside him. The shaman.
Magnus turned. The old man's eyes were like fog, glazed and blind, yet somehow seeing far more than the rest of them. He walked barefoot, untouched by the cold, muttering to himself.
"The air stings different here. The magic runs deep, old, buried. She is near."
Magnus frowned. "The elf?"
The shaman nodded, stopping to press his palm against the bark of a frostbitten pine. "The last daughter of Nythera... she hides beyond the peak."
As the words left his mouth, a low screech echoed from above the cliffs.
"Incoming!" shouted a soldier.
From the fog emerged shapes—beasts on two legs, twisted and hunched, with grey skin like burnt leather and jaws lined with rows of black teeth. Gambits. Ten of them leapt from the rocks, snarling, armed with rusted blades and iron claws.
The soldiers raised their shields. Swords clashed. Steel screamed.
Magnus stepped back as a gambit lunged toward him. Before it could land, his captain drove a spear through its throat. The creature dropped, twitching in the snow.
"Hold the line!" the captain roared.
The skirmish was brief. Blood stained the snow, black and red. Two soldiers lay dead. Five others injured. The gambits regrouped, snarling from a distance. Then a taller one stepped forward—its horns curled, eyes yellow like burning tar.
"Enough!" Magnus barked.
He raised a hand, signaling peace. The soldiers hesitated, confused. The gambits growled, unsure.
"I am King Magnus of Caelthorn," he said. "I did not come to wage war against your kind."
The horned gambit hissed. "You tread on cursed grounds, human."
"And I seek what the curse protects. I was told you guard these mountains. I offer a deal."
The gambits stirred. The leader stepped closer.
"What deal?"
Magnus pulled a pouch from his belt and tossed it into the snow between them. The fabric burst open—glittering rubies and chunks of gold spilling across the white.
"That is a mere sample. Aid me in finding the elf beyond this range, and I will give you tenfold more."
The gambits eyed the gems. Some licked their lips. Others glanced toward their leader.
"We do not serve humans."
"You serve power," Magnus replied. "Gold is power. With it, your kind will never kneel again."
The leader looked down at the gold, then at Magnus. A long silence followed.
"There is a barrier," the gambit said finally. "A wall of stone and spell, marked with the sigil of Nythera. No man can pass."
"Then break it."
The gambits exchanged uneasy looks.
"One among us... knows some of their tongue. Old words. Forbidden magic."
"Then lead me there. Show me the wall."
---
Hours later, the snow had grown fierce. Gusts howled through the trees, and the forest thinned as they reached the mountain's root. There, half-buried in ice, stood a towering stone wall, covered in glowing runes—an ancient language pulsing with blue light. At the center of it: the mark of the elves—a tree with seven roots, encircled by stars.
The moment they neared, the wind stilled. Silence pressed upon them.
Magnus stepped forward and placed his hand on the wall. The runes glowed brighter, then sparked. A shock ran through his arm and threw him back into the snow.
"Sire!"
He stood, gritting his teeth.
"No one touches it," the gambit leader warned. "It rejects those not of the blood."
"Then your magic," Magnus growled. "Do it. Now."
One of the gambits stepped forward. A cloaked figure with a crooked staff, eyes clouded by age and power. The air shifted as he raised his hands and began to chant. The runes on the wall flickered. A sound like cracking ice echoed.
Then—a fracture. Small, but there.
"Again," Magnus said.
The gambit mage chanted louder. Another crack. Stone flaked.
The wall would not fall today—but it had weakened. And that was enough.
Magnus stared at the sigil.
"You're running out of places to hide, little elf."
He turned to his captain. "Set camp here. Guard this place day and night. No one enters, no one leaves."
As soldiers began setting up tents and torches along the snowy perimeter, Magnus moved aside and stood still at the ridge, facing the wall. His thoughts wandered back to Margot, her cryptic smile when he declared this journey. Was it approval, or mockery? Was she hiding more than she spoke?
He glanced at the shaman now crouching near the fire, humming ancient songs to the flames. The man had spoken of only one elf. One survivor.
Yet Magnus felt a growing doubt. What if the curse wasn't only tied to the elf girl? What if there were others—scattered, hidden, beyond his grasp?
Suddenly, the gambit mage let out a shriek. More of the wall shimmered, a vein of light cracking through the surface like a wound slowly opening. The effort drained him, his shoulders hunched, hands shaking. But the wall had changed.
The barrier was no longer unbreakable.
Just before he returned to camp, Magnus murmured to himself, "The girl will fall. Whether by steel or spell, I will have my kingdom back."
He did not know that Serena and her kin lived far from this place, untouched.
The real elf he sought... was not behind that wall.