The northern wind bit like jagged glass, cutting through Cled's cloak and gnawing at his skin. The sky above the Frost Mountains was a fractured gray, streaked with the faint luminescence of the aurora-like glow that always accompanied storms in this cursed range. Each gust seemed alive, whispering secrets he couldn't understand. He paused on the narrow ledge, the snow beneath his boots slick and treacherous, and looked down at the village below. The lights of the chimneys flickered, tiny and fragile against the encroaching wilderness, and for a moment, he felt a pang of longing.
But he couldn't linger. Not now. The whispers that had haunted his dreams for nights on end had grown louder, and he could feel them in his bones, vibrating with a cold, insistent rhythm that demanded he move northward. They were calling him to something buried deep beneath the mountains—something older than the village, older than any living memory.
A flicker of motion caught his eye. At first, he thought it was the wind tossing snow from a branch. But the figure that emerged from the swirling storm was far too deliberate. Its form shimmered against the snow, almost dissolving into the air, yet there was no mistaking the unnatural glow of its green eyes.
Cled's hand moved instinctively to his dagger. His pulse hammered in his ears. "Who's there?" he demanded.
The figure paused, tilting its head slowly. A shiver ran down his spine—it moved with a grace no human could possess. Then, a voice, brittle and fractured like ice, filled the space between them.
"You shouldn't be here, Cled of the Cracked Sky."
The words struck him like a thunderclap. That name… only his father had ever used it. But his father had been gone for years—or so he had believed.
The figure took a step forward, and the snow seemed to recoil around it, forming jagged patterns of frost that glinted in the weak light. "Why do you resist what you cannot deny?" the voice hissed.
Cled gritted his teeth. His hand tightened on the hilt of his dagger. "I'm not afraid of shadows," he said, though fear licked at the edges of his courage.
The figure laughed, a sound like cracking glaciers. Shadows detached themselves from the snow, slithering along the ground and climbing the trees. They moved in a coordinated wave, circling him, probing for weakness. Cled's heart pounded. This was not merely a test of strength; it was a test of will.
He took a deep breath, centering himself. The energy of the Cracked Sky pulsed through him, a warm, golden fire against the biting cold. Light flared along his arms, crackling against the frost-bound shadows. The creatures hissed and recoiled, but they were not gone. Not yet.
Cled leapt forward, dagger slicing through one of the advancing shadows. Its form shattered like glass, spraying frost that stung his skin. But for every shadow he destroyed, two more took its place. He knew instinctively that this was a trap meant to exhaust him, to force him to falter.
And then he saw it: a circle of runes etched into the snow, glowing faintly green beneath the moonlight. His instincts screamed at him. The runes were old—ancient magic, older than the village, older than the mountains themselves. Something told him that this was no ordinary battlefield.
He stumbled into the circle, and the air shifted. The shadows paused, as if respecting the boundary. Cled's fingers brushed one of the glowing runes, and a shock ran through him, not painful but awakening. Images flashed in his mind: a city of light consumed by shadow, a figure cloaked in green fire, a door beneath the Frost Mountains sealed by magic older than time.
The whispers in his mind rose to a cacophony. The Frost Shadows were not random—they were sent to guide him, to test him, to push him toward something that had been waiting for centuries. He realized with cold clarity that the danger above was nothing compared to what lay beneath.
A sudden tremor shook the ground. Snow and ice cracked beneath his boots, and the circle of runes pulsed violently. The shadows surged again, undeterred this time, coiling around him with blinding speed. Cled braced himself, channeling all his energy into a burst of golden light that exploded outward. Frost shattered, snow blew back like a storm, and for a moment, silence fell.
But that silence was a lie. From the fissures opened by the tremor, a roar erupted, a sound that resonated in his chest and shook the mountain. The snowstorm thickened, and through it, the figure advanced, larger, more imposing than before, its green eyes burning with malice.
Cled's breath came in ragged gasps. He ducked behind a jagged outcropping of ice, adrenaline surging. Every instinct screamed that he was on the precipice of something far beyond his understanding. This was no mere test of courage—it was a threshold, a crossing into a realm where the Frost Shadows were only the vanguard.
The figure stopped at the edge of the clearing, towering over the broken ice and shattered runes. "You have come far," it said, voice reverberating with power. "But the path is only beginning."
The ice beneath Cled groaned ominously. Snow shifted, forming shapes that resembled claws and twisted faces. Every sense screamed danger, yet he knew he could not retreat. The fissure opened wider beneath his feet, revealing a darkness that seemed to pulse with life, as if the mountain itself were breathing.
A single thought consumed him: he had to survive. He had to descend. Whatever lay beneath the frost, he needed to face it.
Cled braced himself, running toward the fissure. The shadows surged one final time, clawing, slicing, attempting to drag him back. He leapt, catching a ledge as the world blurred around him. Snow and ice fell into the abyss, echoing endlessly, the roar of the figure behind him mixing with the thunder of collapsing frost.
He slid down the icy wall, the wind tearing at his face, the darkness below swallowing all sense of distance. His heart pounded, lungs burned, and every muscle screamed with exertion. The light from the runes above faded, leaving only the faint glow of the shadows' eyes watching from the ledges.
Then he felt it—an unseen presence, massive, ancient, awakening beneath the frost. The mountain quivered, and a deep rumble shook the ice walls around him. His dagger slipped from his grip, clattering against the frozen stone below. He scrambled for it, but before he could reach it, the fissure split wider.
Cled felt himself falling—not into mere darkness, but into a void that seemed alive. Shapes moved beneath him, enormous forms shifting just beyond perception. The air was thick, suffocating, tinged with a scent that was not snow, not frost, but something primal, terrifying, and impossibly old.
His fingers brushed cold stone as he fell. He caught himself, clinging to the jagged edge, heart hammering in his throat. From the void below, a low, resonant growl echoed, vibrating through the mountain and into his very bones. It was a sound that carried intelligence, malice, and hunger.
Cled realized with icy certainty: the shadows were not the true danger. They were only the heralds. Whatever lay beneath was far older, far stronger, and it had been waiting for him to arrive.
The wind tore through the chasm like a living thing. Frost whipped his face, stinging his eyes, and his breath came in ragged clouds. The figure above howled in frustration, or perhaps in warning, before vanishing into the swirling storm, leaving Cled alone with the abyss.
He let go of the ledge. He had no choice. Gravity took him, and as he plunged, he felt the full weight of what awaited him—the ancient power, the sealed door, the Frost Mountain's heart stirring awake. The void below was alive, calling him, testing him, and he knew that once he passed this threshold, nothing would ever be the same.
And then, just before the darkness consumed him, he saw it: a pair of eyes glowing from the depths, larger than any mountain cave, burning with green fire that promised oblivion—and something else. Recognition.
Cled screamed into the void, and the abyss answered.