The morning was wrong.

It wasn’t colder, though cold had long passed the limits of measure. It wasn’t darker—light had become a dull blur without sun or shade. But the air pressed heavier, like the sky itself had exhaled and chosen not to breathe in again.

No one spoke as they packed the camp. They didn’t need to. The Icebreakers knew first—restless, snorting, hooves twitching on the ice. One let out a low sound none had heard before—not fear, but warning.

They mounted in silence.

The beasts moved cautiously, each step a hush, a creeping motion through the void-white. Time bled into nothingness.

“They’re close,” Vorgar finally said.

“I counted seven shadows this morning,” Elira murmured. “Now there are nine.”

“They never fall behind,” Serenya added.

The noose had tightened. Kaelen felt it—the pause before the drop.

Then the sound came. Low. Distant. Not a roar, but a deep-bone vibration. Icebreakers froze. Their breath steamed around them.

That wasn’t the wind.

Shapes began to move—massive, blurred shadows in the white.

“They are coming,” Serenya whispered.

Then: the roar. Not heard—felt. Like the world itself splitting.

Weapons were drawn. Serenya’s magic shimmered. Sylara notched arrows. Torwyn hefted his hammer. Vorgar’s axes gleamed. Kaelen’s sword met his hand like an old truth.

The storm split. Shadows emerged—hulking, ancient, born of ice and old hunger.

And then it began.

The first Warden struck with a blur. Kaelen’s Icebreaker shrieked, its neck sheared through. He was thrown, rolling across the ice as screams tore the air.

Wardens poured in.

Elira’s beast rammed horns into a Warden before collapsing. Vorgar met it with a howl, axes flashing in crimson arcs. Sylara’s arrows pierced eyes and throats with deadly calm. Serenya unleashed violet bursts, ripping one Warden apart with pure force.

Torwyn shattered skulls—until a claw smashed his leg. He fell. But rose again.

He roared, swinging upward—crushed a Warden’s jaw, then another’s spine. Blood poured, steam hissed—but he stood until one raked across his chest. He dropped. Another came.

Sylara screamed his name.

Kaelen rose. Blade gritted in his grip, he drove it through a Warden’s heart. Another. Another. But there were too many.

Icebreakers died around them, loyal to the end.

Vorgar fought like a storm, shielding Elira with fury. Twin axes sang through flesh and bone.

“Behind you!” she cried.

A black talon speared through his side, lifting him like a doll.

Still, he fought. An axe buried into the Warden’s eye as it dropped him.

Then—another came. Jaws locked. Vorgar was ripped from the ground, flung into the snow like meat. He didn’t move.

Elira screamed.

She ran to him, dropped to her knees, cradled his bloody head. “Please—Vorgar—stay with me—”

His eyes fluttered once. Then stillness.

Kaelen watched the last of his brotherhood die. Serenya saw Torwyn, barely breathing, and faltered—torn between two lives.

Elira’s scream shattered the silence.

And light burst from her.

A pulse of silver-gold thundered outward, splitting the storm. The Wardens staggered back. The ice cracked.

Kaelen felt it—divine resonance. His veins burned with fire.

He rose.

Golden light erupted from him, his blade blazing with molten fury. He moved—faster than sight. One Warden split in half. Another impaled. He didn’t shout. He simply destroyed.

The last Warden fled.

The storm quieted.

Silence fell. Not dread—reverence.

Serenya crawled to Torwyn, magic flickering in her hands, fading as she poured all she had into him. Sylara knelt beside her, eyes filled with tears, bow broken.

Kaelen stumbled toward Vorgar’s body.

Elira sat beside it, fingers locked in his armor, her face pressed to his bloodied cheek.

“He saved me,” she whispered. “He didn’t even hesitate…”

Kaelen knelt. Held her.

“I know.”

Around them: red snow, steaming corpses, shattered steel. The storm whispered low and cold again.

They had survived.

But not whole.

Not victorious.

Just alive.

And all they could do was cry.