The wind had buried the footprints that trailed from the Dalarii encampment before dawn. Snow drifted silently across the blackened remains of the village, settling over shattered timbers and scorched earth alike. By morning, only the thin columns of smoke that rose into the pale sky remained, as though the mountain itself still mourned. Lothær stood at the mouth of the main pass down the mountain. He had not slept.
Darkblood rested across his shoulders once more, the roots that had pierced his arms now hidden beneath fresh wrappings stained brown with dried blood. Bulrah's fur cloak hung over his own, its weight far heavier than wool or leathers had any right to be. Behind him, the survivors gathered in silence. There were fewer than he remembered. A mother held a sleeping child against her chest. An old hunter leaned on a spear he no longer had the strength to throw. Two young brothers stared at the smoke where their home had once stood, waiting for someone to tell them they could go back.
No one did. Lothær closed his eyes, he knew every face. He also knew which faces were missing. He couldn't bear to count them. A boot crunched through the snow behind him.
"Chieftan."
He turned. It was Hrolf, one of the oldest hunters in the clan. His beard had turned white years ago, but his shoulders were still broad enough to carry a vyrl alone. Not today. Today they sagged beneath a burden no man could lift.
"The children are asking where we're going."
Lothær looked beyond him. Several of the younger ones watched from beside the fire. Not crying, nor speaking, just watching and waiting. He searched for an answer, but nothing came.
"I don't know."
The words surprised even him. Hrolf nodded once.
"Understood."
Neither man spoke after that. The mountain answered for them with a long groan as snow shifted somewhere high above. Lothær looked back toward the ruins. The pyres had burned through the night. There had been too many bodies to bury. Too many names to remember before the flames claimed them.
He thought of Bulrah. As he had tackled him into the Winter Games pit only days before.
"I've been waiting all year."
The memory struck harder than any blade through his heart. Lothær clenched his jaw. He would not remember his brother's last scream. He refused as he shook the beginning of the thought from his mind.
One of the little girls stepped away from the others. She couldn't have been older than six. In both hands she carried a wooden carving. She stopped in front of him.
"I found this."
Lothær looked down. It was a small bear carved from pine. One ear had been broken off. Bulrah had carved it. He remembered teasing him for making toys instead of sharpening axes.
"Someone has to make the children smile," Bulrah had answered.
Lothær took the carving carefully. His enormous hand dwarfed it.
"...Thank you."
The girl nodded and returned to her mother. Lothær stared at the toy for a long moment. Then tucked it inside his cloak, as if another promise to carry. He turned to the survivors. There were twenty four of them.
Twenty four.
Once there had been hundreds. He took a slow breath.
"When the snow breaks..."
Every eye lifted to him.
"...we leave."
No speeches or declarations. Just a direction. Because that was all he had left to give. The survivors quietly gathered what little remained of their lives. A cooking pot. A bundle of pelts. A hunting bow with only three arrows. One child insisted on carrying a smooth stone he'd found beside the fire pit. No one told him to leave it behind. Some burdens were too small to matter, while others too heavy to set down.
As the first pale light crested the mountains, the last of the Dalarii turned away from the only home they had ever known. No one looked back.
Except Lothær.
Only once.
Only long enough to whisper words the wind carried away before anyone else could hear them.
"May the All Mother remember your names."
Then he faced the mountain pass. And began to walk.
There were no roads through the Felmor peaks. Only narrow game trails carved by generations of hunters and hidden beneath fresh snow. Lothær had walked them since he could stand. As a boy, his father had taught him to read the mountains the way other peoples may read books. Every cliff had a name. Every stream carried a story. Every valley held the memory of someone who had never returned.
Now those stories followed behind him. The survivors moved in silence. No one complained. The children tried. Their mothers hushed them before the words ever left their mouths. Even grief had its customs among the Dalarii. By midday, the wind had sharpened. Snow swept across the ridges in glittering sheets, stealing the world beyond a dozen paces. Lothær raised a hand, and the line stopped.
He knelt beside the trail. A single broken branch protruded from the snow. He brushed it clean.
Not broken, but bent, fresh. Something had passed through here recently.
"Hrolf."
The old hunter stepped forward.
"What do you see?"
Hrolf crouched beside him for a long moment.
"Vyrl."
Lothær nodded.
"Three."
"Aye."
"Heading west."
"They'll find lower ground before the storm."
Lothær stood.
"So will we."
No one questioned him.
If the vyrl believed a storm was coming, then a storm was coming. That was enough. The group followed their game silently through the thickening brush until a loud crack rang through the peaks, frightening the vyrl and causing them to flee. One of the young hunters let loose an arrow in desperation only for it to miss the backside of the largest one as it faded into the forming forest.
By dusk, they found shelter beneath an overhanging shelf of black stone. The children gathered dry pine needles while the hunters searched for branches buried beneath the snow. Before long, a small fire crackled against the cliff face, its light barely strong enough to push back the darkness. The smell of a hearty stew should have filled the air.
Instead...
There was only melted snow. One pot. Passed from hand to hand. Each person took a single drink before passing it on. No one asked for more. When it reached Lothær, he stared into the steaming water. Bulrah had always complained about this part of unsuccessful hunts.
"If we're going to starve, we may as well starve with flavor."
Lothær almost smiled.
Almost.
He passed the pot without drinking. The remaining Dalarii all set up their sleeping quarters in hopes of getting a long enough rest to make it to the base of the peak the next day.
Later that night...
Lothær found himself being unable to sleep. He climbed the ridge overlooking the camp. Below him, twenty three people slept. One child cried softly in her dreams. A mother reached out without waking and pulled her close. The fire cracked. The mountains remained silent.
For the first time in his life...
Lothær realized he hated the silence. It left too much room for memory.
"...Brother."
The word escaped before he realized he'd spoken.
"I could have saved you."
The wind carried his voice into the darkness. No answer came. Only snow.
"Lying to yourself won't bring him back."
Lothær's hand was on Darkblood before he had even turned. Hrolf stood a few paces away, wrapped in a thick bearskin.
"I wasn't trying to sneak up on you, Chieftain."
"No."
The old hunter looked toward the stars.
"You've never been good at that."
Lothær said as he let out a tired breath.
"I failed."
Hrolf was quiet for so long that Lothær wondered if he hadn't heard.
Finally...
"You know why I followed your father?"
Lothær shook his head.
"Because he never promised we'd all come home."
That caught him off guard.
"He promised he'd do everything he could."
Hrolf looked toward the sleeping camp.
"And he did, he was a strong warrior with an even stronger heart."
Another silence. Then…
"You've been trying to carry every grave on that mountain."
Lothær looked away.
"I buried them."
"No."
Hrolf's voice remained calm.
"You survived them."
The words struck harder than any blow. Lothær looked down toward the camp, twenty three souls. He couldn't help but remember all the faces he had seen just the night before. He could still remember every name. He wondered how long a group this small in size, and with this few able bodies would last this journey.
"...What do I tell them?"
Hrolf frowned.
"The children."
Lothær swallowed.
"They still think we're going home."
The old hunter looked toward the mountains behind them.
"There isn't a home to return to."
"I know."
"No."
Hrolf's voice remained gentle.
"You may know it."
He nodded toward the camp.
"They don't."
Silence settled between them again. At last, Hrolf lowered himself onto the rock beside Lothær with a groan.
"My grandfather used to tell me something after every hunt."
Lothær said nothing.
"'A chief doesn't carry his people.'"
He smiled faintly.
"I always thought that was foolish."
Lothær finally returned a glance towards him.
"'Then what does he carry?'"
Hrolf looked out over the small camp.
"'Hope.'"
He chuckled quietly.
"I didn't understand it until I was old."
Another pause.
"If your people lose hope..."
"...they stop walking."
Lothær's eyes drifted back to the camp, where one of the children stirred in their sleep, and another coughed. A mother quietly covered both with her own blanket. She would freeze before they did. Without thinking, Lothær stood. He climbed back down the ridge. One by one, he walked through the sleeping camp. He stopped beside the oldest among them first. The old hunter's cloak had slipped loose. Lothær pulled it back over his shoulders.
Next came the children. One had kicked free of his furs. Another had curled against a cold stone. Lothær gently moved him closer to the fire. The boy never woke. When he reached the edge of camp, he found the youngest girl still awake. The one who had given him Bulrah's carving. She looked up at him with tired eyes.
"Chieftan?"
He knelt beside her.
"You should be asleep."
"I tried."
She hesitated.
"...But I'm scared."
Lothær looked toward the darkness beyond the firelight.
"So am I."
She blinked.
"You are?"
He nodded.
"I've just had more practice hiding it."
For the first time since beginning this trek, she let out a faint smile. Only a little, but it was enough. He brought her closer to her brothers and laid her furs back over her small frame, then gave her a wish of good rest before walking the perimeter of the camp. As Lothær walks...
He notices something. The snow around the camp is untouched. Not a single predator has approached. No wolves, no bears, nothing.
The mountains feel...
Empty.
Hrolf notices him in lost in thought.
"What is it?"
Lothær keeps staring into the darkness.
"...The mountain is too quiet."
The wind carries only silence.
And somehow...
That frightens him more than any howl ever could.
"You need rest if you are to lead us to safety my Chieftain, I will take watch for the time being if we are truly that alone." Hrolf reassured him.
Begrudgingly, Lothær accepted and went to lay himself to rest for the journey ahead. With nothing but the sounds of a slowly crackling fire, and wind peating against the tall oak bodies and stone around them, Lothær slept.
As morning began to crest the camp, he awoke. The camp stirred slowly. Children rubbed sleep from swollen eyes. Hunters checked bowstrings stiffened by frost. The smell of boiling pine needles drifted through the cold air. It wasn't much, but warm water was better than frozen. No one complained. The Dalarii never wasted breath complaining about weather. The mountain didn't care for the words. Hrolf appeared beside Lothær.
"Storm's passed."
Lothær looked upward. The sky was clear, far more clear than it should have been during this period.
"It doesn't feel over."
Hrolf didn't answer. The Dalarii spent their early hours packing their camp and preparing for the journey ahead. Not long after, they walked. Hours passed beneath towering cliffs where sunlight only reached for a few minutes each day. No birds, or rabbits.
Nothing.
The mountain felt abandoned. Even the wind seemed reluctant to pass through it. The group continued their travel in silence until one of the younger hunters called out with a whisper.
"Chieftan."
Lothær turned.
"What is it?"
The hunter pointed toward a ridge.
"Look."
Lothær climbed the rocks. Beyond them, he saw the first herd. Mountain vyrl, nearly forty of them. Every single one dead. None had been eaten. None bore claw marks.They simply lay where they'd fallen. Perfectly preserved beneath fresh snow.
Even stranger...
Every carcass was frozen solid. Not from the slow grasp of winter. From something deeper. The frost glittering across their hides shimmered faintly green. No one spoke. One of the older women quietly clasped her hands around the sign of the All Mother that hung from her wrist. Another whispered a prayer. A child asked,
"Are they sleeping?"
No one answered. Lothær crouched beside the nearest elk. Its eyes were open with muscles rigid. He touched its neck and felt Ice. Not ordinary ice as the cold bit straight through his glove. He pulled his hand away immediately. The leather had frozen stiff. Hrolf stared with shaken breath.
"I've hunted these mountains seventy winters."
He looked around.
"I've never seen anything like this."
Lothær looked toward the distant peaks.
"...Nor have I."
Lothær looked over the frozen herd one last time. Forty mountain vyrl, enough meat to feed the survivors for weeks. Enough hides to keep every child warm through winter. Yet no one moved toward them. The oldest woman finally spoke.
"They're cursed."
Another survivor nodded.
"The All Mother has claimed them."
A younger hunter tightened his grip around his spear.
"They're still meat."
Lothær remained kneeling beside the nearest carcass. His fingers brushed the frozen leather glove. Still rigid, still colder than the snow surrounding it. He stood.
"No."
The younger hunter frowned.
"Chieftain"
"We don't touch them."
"But we'll starve."
"We're Dalarii."
His voice wasn't harsh. Only certain.
"We know the mountain."
He looked back toward the herd.
"And the mountain is telling us something."
No one argued after that. Lothær adjusted Darkblood across his shoulders.
"We move."
They left the valley behind. More than once, Lothær caught someone glancing back toward the herd. Not with fear, but with hunger. Every step away from it felt heavier than the last. By midday, the wind shifted. The smell reached them first. Ash. Not wood smoke, not the scent of a hunter's fire. Something older, something familiar.
Lothær stopped, as the others nearly walked into him.
"Hrolf."
The old hunter lifted his head.
"I smell it."
"So do I."
The wind blew again. Carrying black flakes across the snow. One landed on the sleeve of the little girl walking near the front of the line. She brushed it away.
"It looks like snow."
"It isn't."
Lothær looked toward the southern horizon. The flakes drifted lazily through the air, too dark to be soot and too light to be sand. The mountain shouldn't have smelled like burning. Not here. Not this far from the ruins. Yet the scent grew stronger with every mile. They continued as the climb grew steeper. Loose stone replaced snow beneath their boots. When Lothær finally reached the summit, he stopped so abruptly that Hrolf nearly collided with him.
"What is it?"
Lothær didn't answer. Below them stretched a valley he had crossed dozens of times throughout his life. He knew every stream. Every stand of pine. Every hunting trail. But today...
None of it was white. Great streaks of black ash scarred the mountainside. Entire forests stood gray and lifeless, as though winter itself had forgotten them. The wind carried more of the dark flakes into the sky. Lothær's jaw tightened.
"It wasn't just us."
No one spoke. They all understood what that meant. If the mountain itself was dying...
Lothær looked over the valley one last time. The Felmor Mountains had been home to the Dalarii since before memory. Every hunt, every feast, every child born beneath their peaks, every warrior laid to rest beneath their stone.
Now...
Even the mountains were dying. He closed his eyes. Somewhere beyond the eastern ridges, if the old stories still held truth, the Stone Folk carved their halls beneath the earth itself. It was little more than hope. But hope was all they had left. Lothær turned to the survivors.
"We're leaving the mountains."
No one argued.
One by one, the last of the Dalarii followed their chieftain down the eastern pass.
None of them looked back.