Blackwind Mountain
Consciousness returned in fragments.
Dragged upward from a depthless dark by a single, relentless sound.
SFX: plink… plink… plink…
Water dripped somewhere above him. Each drop struck stone with a hollow, metallic ring that echoed outward into unseen vastness, as if the sound itself were falling.
Levi's eyes snapped open.
Rust-red gloom pressed in from all sides. Cold bit through his back and shoulders where he lay sprawled across slick flagstone. Wet. Uneven. Ancient. His first breath burned—iron and mold flooding his lungs hard enough to tear a cough from his throat.
He rolled, trying to push himself upright.
His arms buckled.
Not from weakness.
From wrongness.
The movement was too light. Too fast. Like swinging limbs made of hollow reed instead of bone and wasting muscle. Panic flared hot in his chest as he scrambled onto his knees, palms slapping stone.
This body was smaller.
Narrower.
Lighter.
Not the tall, cadaverous frame that had carried him through months of slow decay.
Heart hammering, he crawled across the slick floor until he found a shallow puddle catching faint light from high, barred slits cut into the walls. He leaned over it.
The reflection stole his breath.
A stranger stared back.
Short. Fragile.
A boy.
Sixteen… maybe seventeen. Hardship had etched older lines around the eyes, but there was no hiding the youth. Greasy dark hair clung in lank strands to a narrow, sharp-boned face. Pale skin, blemished and raw. Cracked lips. Wide, dark eyes trembling with terror.
His terror.
But framed in someone else's skull.
Levi staggered back, choking.
Ragged gray robes hung from his shoulders—coarse wool, threadbare at knees and elbows, stained with old blood and newer grime. The fabric stank of mildew, sweat, and something coppery that made his stomach twist.
He clawed at the robes, fingers scrabbling over unfamiliar collarbones. Over ribs too close to the surface. He pinched the inside of his forearm hard.
Pain flared—sharp, bright, immediate.
Real.
A sound tore out of him. Raw. Wordless. Denial made flesh.
The voice was wrong.
Higher. Cracked. Too young.
Not the hoarse rasp he'd grown used to during his final weeks.
Memories surged like a broken reel—his cracked apartment mirror, the sharp jut of his own hipbones, trembling fingers counting pills.
Gone.
All of it gone.
He folded forward, forehead pressing to the cold stone, breath hitching into sobs that sounded too small for the terror inside him.
Then—
The voice spoke.
Not from ahead.
Not from behind.
From everywhere.
A cold, genderless pressure bloomed inside his skull, squeezing until his teeth ached.
"Welcome, chosen of the Midnight Spell."
The words did not echo. They settled—sinking into him like frost into marrow.
"You have been granted a vessel suited to the trials ahead. Your former form was unfit. Weak. Crumbling."
Levi shook, hands pressed to his ears.
"This one is fresh. Malleable."
The voice did not sneer.
It did not mock.
It simply stated.
"Survive the trials, and power shall be yours. Power to reshape flesh. To reclaim time stolen from you."
Hope flickered.
And was immediately strangled.
"Fail, and oblivion claims you forever. No return. No memory. Only the dark."
The pressure eased.
Levi lifted his head, trembling.
"The first trial begins now."
Stone screamed.
SFX: GRRRRNNNNK—SCREEEECH
At the far end of the chamber, a massive rusted gate began to rise. Bars thick as his new wrists scraped upward, chains rattling over unseen pulleys. Icy wind detonated inward, carrying flecks of snow and the clean, merciless scent of high altitude.
"Blackwind Mountain."
The words carried weight.
"Climb. Endure. Reach the summit beneath the blue sun, and you will be forged anew."
The wind howled louder.
"Fall behind… and the mountain will take what is owed."
Levi forced himself upright.
His legs shook—but they held.
The gate yawned open, revealing a slice of sky the color of frozen steel. He staggered forward, robes snapping around his calves as the wind hit him like a blade.
He had no choice.
He crossed the threshold.
The courtyard beyond sprawled wide and cracked, a dead expanse of stone ringed by towering walls of black iron. Snow drifted in slow, lazy spirals from above.
The sun hung overhead.
Not yellow.
Not white.
A burning blue disk that hurt to look at—too bright and too cold at once.
Dozens of figures huddled in the yard.
Men. Women. A few barely more than children.
All dressed in the same tattered gray robes.
They shivered violently, breath pluming white. Every face mirrored Levi's own confusion and terror.
Some wept openly.
Others stared at their hands as if they belonged to strangers.
A woman nearby retched into the snow, then stared at her fingers—too small, too delicate—wiping her mouth.
Armed guards ringed the group.
Tall.
Broad.
Encased in dark, segmented armor that gleamed like obsidian. Their helms were visorless, faces exposed—etched with ritual scars, eyes flat and merciless. They carried long spears tipped with cruel hooks.
One struck the ground.
SFX: THUNK
"Form line!"
The voice cut through the wind with brutal ease. The speaker was the tallest among them, broad-shouldered, a scar splitting his mouth into a permanent, cruel grin.
"Weakest to the rear," he continued. "The mountain sorts the worthy from the chaff."
Rough hands shoved Levi backward.
He stumbled, nearly falling, as larger bodies pushed past him.
In this vessel, he was the smallest.
Barely five and a half feet. Narrow shoulders. Arms like sticks.
The guards noticed immediately.
One laughed—a low, ugly sound—and slammed a spear butt into Levi's ribs.
SFX: THUD
"Look at the little rat," the guard sneered. "You'll feed the wind before the first ridge."
Pain flared. Levi bit back a cry and staggered to the very end of the ragged column.
Snow crunched beneath bare feet.
His feet.
Already numb.
Ahead—
Blackwind Mountain loomed.
It rose in brutal tiers. Lower slopes crusted with ice. Higher reaches swallowed by cloud and screaming snow. Switchback trails scarred its face like old wounds, vanishing into white oblivion.
The blue sun glared down, turning every surface into blinding knives of light.
The lead guard raised his spear.
"The march begins," he declared. "Reach the summit by nightfall, and you live to face the next trial."
The spear lowered.
"Lag. Fall. Or flee—and the Spell will unmake you where you stand."
The column lurched forward.
Guards flanked them like wolves.
The wind howled louder as they left the courtyard, slicing through thin robes, finding every weakness.
Levi trudged at the rear.
Each step sank ankle-deep into snow.
His new lungs burned.
His new legs trembled.
Already the stronger ones surged ahead, driven by terror and hunger for survival.
And Levi understood—cold certainty settling deeper than the wind—exactly what this body made him here.
Not a warrior.
Not a contender.
The useless servant.
The one who would be left behind.
The one already marked for death—
Once again.