The door creaked, and Cassel burst into the room, his presence shattering the tense silence that hung like Mith's cold. His hair was a tangled mess, plastered to his pale forehead with sweat and dust, strands falling over his weary, bloodshot eyes. A crude bandage, poorly wrapped around his leg, sagged with dried blood, its frayed edges mirroring the state of his tattered clothes: a tunic torn at the shoulder, pants shredded at the knees, stained with dirt and snow. His face was a mask of pity, eyes downcast, lips pressed into a thin line, as if bearing the weight of his recklessness. The air thickened, the shadows cast by the iron candelabras seeming to lean toward him, as if the place itself judged him.
Orus, seated behind the heavy oak table, leaned forward, his stern gaze softening slightly, though his voice retained the weight of his authority. "Here you are, Cassel," he said, breaking the silence. "I see you're… intact, at least." His eyes scanned the young man's disheveled state, lingering on the sloppy bandage.
Vassil, leaning against the table from the side, let out a low chuckle, his smile curling like poisonous smoke. "Well, look at the hero of the mountains," he said, his tone dripping with mockery, his eyes gleaming with an unsettling curiosity that raised goosebumps. His bulk cast a shadow that seemed to swallow the candlelight, his fingers drumming on the table's edge with a slow, almost menacing rhythm.
Cassel shifted uncomfortably, the creak of the floorboards under his boots echoing like a reflection of his own fragility. "I'm sorry, Uncle Orus," he mumbled, his voice barely audible. He avoided Jean's gaze, though he felt the other boy's eyes boring into him from the edge of a chair against the wall, laden with a mix of coldness and reproach.
Orus sighed, a sound heavy with the burden of leadership, and leaned back in his chair, the candelabras dripping wax like frozen tears. "What happened, Cassel?" he asked, his tone firm but edged with paternal concern. "Jean says it was your idea to go to the mountains, chasing legends of the Daughters of the Cold. Why take such a risk? Those rumors have been around for decades, but no one has ever returned triumphant from the mountains. How did you think two kids could… Was it because of Dann?"
Cassel swallowed, his throat dry, the pain in his leg flaring with each movement. His hands trembled slightly, but he raised his eyes, meeting Orus's with a mix of guilt and determination. "I had to, Uncle Orus," he said, his voice cracking but gaining strength. "The wedding with Amelia is in fifteen days, and I swore I wouldn't marry her as a nobody. I wanted… to find something in the mountains to give me a chance." He paused, his fists clenching, the bandage crinkling. "I agreed with Jean to meet at the Min stream in four hours. When the time was up, I headed back, but…"
"But what?" Vassil interrupted, his smile twisting into something almost feral, leaning toward Cassel like a wolf scenting blood. His eyes gleamed with an unsettling hunger, his fingers halting their drumming, as if poised to pry a secret from the young man.
Cassel lowered his gaze, the granite floor seeming to absorb his voice. "On the way back, I ran into a Crevices Creature," he said, his tone low, almost a whisper. "It was… like a rodent, but with bones jutting out, glowing eyes. I think it was… a Rotten Beaver. It attacked me near the Min stream." He pointed to the bandage on his leg, the dried blood staining the fabric. "I fought it, but I only escaped by sheer luck. We got into a scuffle, and I took advantage of being near its nest with its young to lure it. I hit it with a loose rock, and the creature was knocked out. It didn't chase me, probably afraid to leave its eggs. I couldn't even bring back its bloodstone. Ha, ha! How pathetic." His voice broke, his shoulders slumping, as if the memory of the fight crushed him.
A heavy silence filled the room, broken only by the drip of wax and the faint creak of Jean's chair. Orus raised an eyebrow, his fingers pausing their drumming on the table, his expression wavering between disbelief and concern. "A beaver?" he repeated, his voice low, as if weighing Cassel's words. "And you say you escaped by luck?" His eyes narrowed, scrutinizing the young man, searching for cracks in his story.
Vassil let out a dry laugh, almost a growl, his smile widening but devoid of warmth. "Luck, huh?" he said, his tone mocking but edged with suspicion. He crossed his arms, his shadow stretching as if trying to envelop Cassel. "Nothing else to tell, little hero? No treasures from the mountains?"
Cassel shook his head, his hands clutching his torn tunic. "Just… I survived," he murmured, avoiding Vassil's eyes, the room's cold intensifying, as if the bastion itself doubted him. The memory of Etus's needle—its writhing red thread, his chilling smile—made him shiver, but he stayed silent, afraid to reveal more. Jean, from his chair, fixed him with a cold stare, his bandaged hands gripping the chair's arms.
Orus stood, his cloak rustling, and approached Cassel, his gaze firm but not cruel. "You survived, yes, but at a cost," he said, his voice low, almost a murmur. "Crevice Creatures are no game, Cassel. If something had happened to you, the Boreas would be in a delicate position." He paused, glancing at Jean, then at Vassil, whose smile didn't waver. "But for now, you're here. That's enough."
Vassil tilted his head, his laugh fading, though his eyes remained fixed on Cassel, as if sniffing out a secret. "For now," he repeated, his voice soft but laden with menace. "But don't think this is over, pup."
Cassel nodded, his heart pounding.
***
The hallway of the Boreas residence was shrouded in icy gloom, lit only by flickering torches casting dancing shadows on the granite walls. The air smelled of burnt wax and damp stone, with a faint trace of snow seeping through the cracks of high, frost-covered windows. It was late at night, the silence broken only by the creak of floorboards under the boots of a guard patrolling at the end of the corridor, his armor clinking with each step. Cassel walked alongside Jean, the crude bandage on his leg tugging with every movement.
Jean, his arms wrapped in bandages, walked stiffly, his face a mask of coldness. His eyes were hard as mountain ice, avoiding Cassel. Each step echoed in the hallway, the creak of the floorboards marking the chasm between them. Cassel, true to his shameless nature, tried to break the silence.
"Hey, Jean, I heard you fought Yannick in the city streets. Bet you gave that arrogant bastard a thrashing, huh? Ha, ha!" he said, forcing a smile. Jean didn't respond, his gaze fixed ahead, lips pressed tight. Cassel frowned but pressed on.
"Come on, man, don't give me the cold shoulder. It was an adventure, right?" he continued, his tone light, though a hint of nervousness crept into his words. "We're here, aren't we? A bit battered, but alive."
Jean barely turned his head, his eyes shooting a glacial glare that made Cassel swallow hard. He looked ahead again, quickening his pace, the floorboards creaking under his weight.
Cassel opened his mouth to continue, but the words caught in his throat. The memory of the meeting with Orus—his uncle's stern voice, Vassil's predatory smile—weighed on him. He shook his head, trying to ignore the chill seeping into his bones, and followed Jean down the hallway, his boots echoing unevenly against the floorboards.
As they turned a corner, Cassel collided with an imposing figure, the impact making him stagger back with a gasp. The air rushed out of his lungs, and he looked up, meeting the fierce gaze of Tian Boreas. The man, tall and broad as a mountain, filled the hallway with his presence, his dark leather cloak soaked with snow, as if he'd just returned from Mith's icy streets. His eyes, hard as granite, pinned Cassel in place, and his battle-scarred face seemed carved from stone, a scar slicing across his cheek like a reminder of his fearsome reputation. The guard at the end of the hallway paused, bowing his head respectfully before resuming his patrol, the clink of his armor fading into the gloom.
Cassel, heart racing, flashed a crooked smile, his shamelessness shining through despite the fear tightening his chest. "Uncle Tian, can't sleep tonight? The outskirts are pretty dangerous these days," he asked, his voice tinged with concern, tilting his head as if to lighten the tension.
Tian raised an eyebrow, his gaze piercing Cassel like a spear. "So, you're alive," he replied, his voice deep, rumbling like distant thunder in the hallway. "Looks like you have reasons to stay awake." His eyes lingered on Cassel's sloppy bandage, then his tattered clothes, a spark of disapproval crossing his face.
Cassel swallowed, his smile faltering, but he kept his tone light. "Just a little adventure, Uncle," he said, shrugging, though the movement sparked pain in his leg.
"The wedding's in fifteen days, kid. I wouldn't care, but we can't send a corpse to the Cunin. Behave," the man declared with unquestionable authority. "Jean, let's go," he said, not breaking eye contact with Cassel.
Jean, who had stopped upon seeing Tian, let out a low huff.
Cassel nodded, his heart still racing, as Jean turned and walked away down the hallway, his silence heavier than any words. Tian turned, his cloak brushing the floor, and vanished into the gloom, leaving Cassel alone with the crackle of the torches and the chill whispering from the walls.
That was terrifying, the boy thought, wiping sweat from his brow. I got off way too easily, didn't I? I should be careful. But the feeling didn't last long. A faint smile began to form on Cassel's lips as he walked toward his quarters, unable to help himself; the excitement and anticipation were bigger than him, and his walk turned into a small, eager march. In his right pocket, a small, hard bulge sent shivers up his leg, urging him to move faster. Tonight, for the first time in his life, he was going to cultivate.