---Deathloard---

  #The druid's gambit.

  A lone figure stands in a snow-covered clearing, his weathered face illuminated by the unnatural blue flames dancing before him. The old man's features, deeply etched by both time and hardship, appear otherworldly in the azure glow. All around him, the deep winter has wrapped the forest in that special silence that muffles all but the crackling of the campfire. Also my breathing, but since I don't do that anymore, well. That's gone and solved itself now, hasn't it?

  "O come, brother," he calls out, his voice carrying surprising strength despite the fact he's older than me, which is saying something. "Come join me at the fire. I bet your old dead bones hurt just as fucking much as mine do, vigger or no vigger."

  I step from the shadows of the pines, my passage through the snow, thistime, unnaturally loud, each footfall crunching in the waist-deep snow. Death rarely announces itself, but tonight, I choose otherwise. Also, this man will not die by my blade. His soul is not mine to reep. Would fuck up the balance, and trust you me, no-one wants that clusterfuck. Well, maybee the Author since people probably love that shit, but us characters in the book? No.

  "I want," I speak into the silence, "my steps to sound like—"

  "The Leaders from the Hallow games," the old man finishes, a knowing grin spreading across his face. In the firelight, his sharpened teeth flash with an almost predatory gleam, telling me, though I already know, he's much much more than just a frail old man.

  "Five hundred years and you still remember those?" I ask, moving closer to the warmth. "When you never played them and had little interest in them even when you had the ability to do so?" I pause, studying his weathered face. "And, brother, I do not have vigger, if you remember."

  The old man – the Druid, Second Brother, Lord of Life, bla, bla, bla, – leans forward, the firelight casting his face in shadow now. "Some things," he whispers, "you never forget. Even if you never remembered they existed when they did otherwise exist." His grin returns, mischievous now. "Also, I forgot—you've got go-go vampire juice and blood that's supernatural cocaine without the downsides."

  I feel my expression sobering. "You're sure about this? Harald was enraged when he found out that you had chosen Grace for this." I trace a finger along the edge of my blade—not quite like Durge's, but close enough to remind us all of what we've done. "One was displeased as well, though I can never tell with him." I shrug: "he didn't stab me, so?" I shrug again. "Considering he wiped out an interplanitory corp for killing his glave-girlfriend? Not that I would have done different, though maybee sicked Justice Stone on them, well." I shrug. "Once again, the man didn't stab me with Lyra, so, yeah."

  My memories flicker to Grace—how First Hate found her, what Durge did to reshape her, what the Druid taught her, what Harald allowed to happen. How we all watched and did nothing when she was broken and remade. The guilt sits between us like another presence at this fire. Or, maybee Durge, being the brooding, shadow-loveing, short-sword-wielding, did I mention brooding? Fucker that he is, maybee he's eaten guilt like he ate his old god.

  "Especially," rumbles a new voice, deep as an avalanche, "one whom I saved already, Thirteen."

  From the darkness emerges a giant of a man, easily standing eight and a half feet tall. His massive frame is wrapped in thick voide leather, and a monstrous frostblade, Soulrender, is strapped across his broad back. This is harald himself, Lord of Frost, War and Winter. Despite his fearsome appearance – with a face crisscrossed by battle scars and eyes the pale blue of glacier ice – he moves with surprising grace for one so large. His arrivel also marks the final member of this gathering.

  "Saved," I say, the word tasting bitter. "Is that what we're calling it now?" The silence that follows acknowledges what none of us wish to speak aloud—that Harald's "saving" was anything but, that the Druid's "teaching" stripped away what humanity remained after Durge was done, despite the old man's efforts to do anything but, that my own inaction was perhaps the greatest sin of all. We who walk between worlds treated her as merely a tool, a weapon to be sharpened, not a girl with a life we had no right to reshape. Still waiting for the Deathborn to bring the hammer down, Deathloard or not, they give, no fucks.

  "We have done enough to that child as is." Harald growls, lips pulling back in a silent snarl to show teeth too sharp to be ororin or Human. "Durge has made it clear that he will tolerate no more meddling. He has done enough."

  I watch Harald's face harden at the mention of Durge—the living embodiment of judgment who carved Grace into what she is now. I remember watching from the shadows as Durge's twin blades reshaped her, not just physically but fundamentally altering who and what she was. His meticulous precision as he cut away what he deemed unnecessary, leaving behind only the perfect weapon he envisioned. The screams still echo in the spaces between my thoughts. As they should.

  "First Hate as well, has sided with him on that," Six continues. "This was only allowed as far as it has gone, because you are her blood, Druid, though found, not born. Anyone else?" He shrugs, massive hand landing on Soulrender's hilt, the blue-hued blade pulsing something that only her wielder can understand.

  "If it can be better, then I will deal with the fallout." The Druid's voice turns raspy as he gestures toward the barren landscape spreading out from our hilltop vantage. Beyond it lies a slowly dying world. I, as Death made flesh, would know that.

  I follow his gaze across the wasteland. Once, this was verdant forest. Once, this land was beutiful. Now it's a monument to our failures.

  "I trained them well, but they will not live without me, and I am old. So old and tired." The Druid's voice carries the weight of epochs. "The cold burrows into my bones, even with wild magic. It shall not be long now, and if I can change it? Ensure a future for my kin? I will do much to ensure my clan and kin survive beyond me, as would we all. None remember the fall. None remember what once was, what, now, can never be again."

  Harald approaches the fire, extending his hands to warm them. Despite his voide leather, he seems unaffected by the biting cold. Then again, if one of you're title's is, 'lord of winter' you'd dam not be affected by the cold. "I do not like it." he grunts, massive palms now close to the crackling flames as his breath clouds in the frigid air. "Tinkering with the weft and wyrd? That never leads to a happy ending. Doing so shall have consequences for which even our brother Vidky cannot adjust, and by the scent of it, you won't be around to un-fuck it when the ropes snarl and the blood flows."

  I shift, uncomfortable with the truth in Six's words. We've seen too many well-intentioned schemes collapse into tragedy, and this, in particular. Harald would know better than I. Better then kaden.

  "Durge will follow her," Six adds, his voice suddenly quieter, more dangerous. "For what he's done? His creed will tolerate nothing else."

  I nod slowly, remembering Durge's oath. After he finished remaking Grace—after he'd taken everything from her and rebuilt her according to his vision of justice—he bound himself to her with a blood-oath deeper than any I've witnessed in my millennia. The Judgment's code is absolute. If Grace is harmed again, if we interfere with her once more, Durge's twin blades will seek our throats without hesitation or mercy. Even we, ancient as we are, would be wise to fear that man, if he can even be called a man anymore.

  The Druid straightens, his eyes reflecting the blue flames. "Then shall you walk the path? Shall you do what I ask? Can you do this thing that I require to be done, brother found?"

  His question hangs in the air between us, heavy with implication. We are discussing violating Durge's prohibition, risking his retribution, all for the Druid's desperate gambit. I weigh the consequences—Durge hunting us across realities, his blades singing for our blood, his absolute conviction that we have violated the one sacred thing left to him: his duty to protect what he created.

  But. This is Kaden asking this. More importantly, this is kaden asking this for his clan. The people he calls kin. We, all of us, will do much for our own. We, in tern, will do much when asked to assist another's blood, found or born it makes no difference, as well.

  "Brother Death," the giant says, turning those glacier-blue eyes on me, "can tell you what befalls the loved ones of he who spits in the face of fate, and I shall not throw my men to an uncaring blizzard when I need not, kin of mine. Those whom follow me have been through enough, and I will not have them suffer more for a single child."

  Six's massive face transforms with cold fury as he continues: "No matter how much we have wronged that girl." His enormous fists clench and unclench, the frostblade across his back seeming to share in its master's rage. Not surprising—living weapons, especially those who become women and then marry their wielders, tend to do that.

  "Agreed," I rasp, my voice like stone grinding against stone after millennia of disuse. "The price demanded is not one I shall ever pay. If it were myself, perhaps, but others? Children." The last word escapes as a snarl, and the flames flicker violently as my rage pulses outward like the death that I am. As flames are spoken of as living, well, you can imagine what happens when death itself grows angry.

  "Grace," the giant rumbles, his massive hand stroking his frost-rimed beard. "Must it be her, brother mine? Why not the dwarf? He of the stout heart and the strong arm? Why not your Vidkey? Why a child who's only just passed her twenty-first winter? Why a child who, in our ignorance, we have wronged so already." The last word emerges as the low growl of a winter wolf, frost-rimed muzzle slavering for meat and viscera. Which, well. harald is, technically speaking. He also ate a few gods, but. No, actually, both the gods Durge and Harald ate were assholes, so it's not really that different.

  Pain flickers in the Druid's ancient eyes—eyes that have witnessed the rise and fall of civilizations I know only from the souls that have passed through my realm. He may appear merely old, but the weight of countless eons presses down on him, memories from before the concept of death as I embody it even existed. How does that work? I don't know, not my department.

  "She is the only choice." he says. "It must be her, as she is the only one who might survive. The others? They are strong, yes, but they cannot adapt. You say she has been through enough? You are correct, although that is precisely the reason why she is the only choice. She can adapt to a truly alian world. The others? Balder would be the only one who might, and, well. Balder is not human."

  The giant sighs, a sound like wind through a mountain pass. "As you wish, then. I will not stand against you, as I know well enough that if I were given the chance to change the wyrd of the Frosthold, I would do it, and damn anyone who attempted to stand in my way to hellheim." Before: "or Soulrender would just eat them. The fact she enjoys eating people really should concern me more, but, well." He shrugs again, shoulders riseing and falling.

  I turn to the Druid, curious despite my misgivings. "I thought that the daughter of the hearth was a kind ruler of her kin? It says such in the old myths, and I have spoken to the shield-women of Valhalla who have confirmed this."

  "On your world, yes," harald grunts before the Druid can speak. "But I have walked among the grimdark and the gilded for long, and all who dwell there are infused by their worlds. Your brothers are neither, and give thanks for that mercy, Deathloard. You, being you, would probably just say 'fuck it' and start the end of times early if you've seen the shit I've seen."

  I focus on the Druid once more, curious. "Why did you ask me here? I have little skill with runecraft, Ogham or otherwise. Perhaps Eighteenth Brother, with his bonding to a Skjald, but I? I walk among the shadows of the dead and speak the words of the angel courts. I have no skill with ancient nature, and less with the weft. Though my mate can walk the strings, she cannot assist in this endeavor, at least not on this side." I consider, before: "and if she found out what was done? What you have done? She would spirit the girl as far from us as she could, consent or no." I pause, thinking. "Of all those whom bind to us, my mate might be able to restore the girl to what was. She is an expert in the mind, after all, and she would use novelite magic."

  The Druid's gaze pierces through me, sharp as the wind that has existed before death had a lord. "You are death. That is enough."

  I bow my head, understanding finally dawning. "Only death can pay for life," I intone, the words ancient and heavy. "I shall do this thing, then, to power the transfer. You are brother mine, and I shall, though under protest, give you your final wish, Lord of Life, Lord of Growth, paine in my ass."

  "Fine." Harald grunts, though his hand, large as a dinnerplate, is gentle on the smaller man's shoulder: "and if it is to be Grace? Then it is to be Grace."

  "Good." The Druid rises to his feet, and for a moment, I see how truly ancient he is—not just old, but something beyond mortal comprehension, a being who remembers the birth of stars I've never seen. Yet his smile holds a flash of boyish joy in those tired eyes, and he seems, now, almost pieceful. "Now, if you would? The festival of midwinter is nigh, and I must prepare for it. The fires won't light themselves, and the meat must be brought, as the mead must flow."

  "Thirsty throats don't give a shit from whence the mead flows," harald laughs, relaxing now. "Only that it does, and I can't really complain, since you have dam good mead."

  "Aye," I grunt as I stand, my joints making no sound despite my frequent grumblings about them to, well, anyone who would listen, and that includes you. "I would join you at midwinter, brothers, if Death is allowed."

  "No killing." The druid says with a laugh: "I don't want to have a situation where the Deathloard gets beeton to death. You're not half bad at you're job, after all."

  "One." I say, sobering.

  "Deathwish only." The druid, Kaden, speaks, also sobering. "I can not. harald has no skill in it."

  "How does it go?" harald says with a shrug: "I eat shit and drink things? I think?"

  "I shoot shit and break things." I say with a sigh, before: "you sure that truck didn't give you a concussion?"

  "I mean it killed me, so, I would assume so?" He shrugs: "but since I woke up." he gestures to his Ororin frame, "new bodie and all, and soul-concussions don't exist, well." He shrugs.

  As we near the camp, we shift our forms so we don't get shot by the really well-armed locals. I find myself wondering, as we walk among these mortals who know nothing of what we truly are: Where is the girl now? This Grace, who is at the center of our plans. What new suffering will our meddling bring her, and will Durge's blades find our throats when he discovers what we've done? Or, even hers? And, in the end. Will we deserve it? We've all made mistakes. Grace though? Grace was something else.

  As the druid speaks to several of the rangers, exchangeing words of welcom, introducing us as wandering tradesmen from the warmlands, my thoughts continue to spiral. Down, and down, and down. Like a toilet bowl, though my brain doesn't have a hole at the bottam.

  ---Grace---

  I take a half breath in, the frozen air burning my lungs as I draw back the bowstring. The fletching tickles my ear—a familiar sensation that grounds me in the moment. I exhale and release, watching with satisfaction as the arrow flies true, burying itself in the deer's flank just behind the left shoulder. The creature falls without a sound, its impact muffled by several feet of new snow while the rest of the herd startles, bleating in alarm before stampeding away, their panicked flight kicking up clouds of powder in the now-compacted drifts.

  I nod, pleased with the clean kill before dropping the ten feet from my branch and move toward the dead deer on silent feet. Hefting the corpse across my shoulders with a grunt, I carefully avoid the head—no need to deal with those meat-ripping teeth, before glanceing at my arrow, intending to pull it free. I click my tongue in displeasure when I find the arrowhead has broken upon the creature's spine. I can make another, though it will take time I could use for other tasks.

  I reach my small camp—a tactical spot I've been using to stalk this herd for three days as they feed on burrowing creatures. Grunting with effort, I lower the corpse onto the central slab, little more than a smooth rock at the center of my small niche.

  I sink to my knees beside the carcass, feeling the cold seep through my worn leggings. This clearing has served me well—three days of patient observation rewarded with a clean kill. The animal never sensed my presence until it was too late.

  I unsheathe my bone knife, the handle warm against my palm despite the biting cold. The blade's edge catches weak winter sunlight filtering through pine branches. Sharp enough. I position the animal on the flat stone I cleared yesterday, turning it to access the hindquarters first.

  My first cut slices through hide just above the ankle joint, precise and controlled as always. Blood wells dark against pale fur. I work methodically, fingers finding the space between skin and muscle, separating connective tissue with practiced movements. The knife serves only where fingers cannot separate naturally. Skinning isn't about cutting after all, it's about finding the body's natural divisions and respecting them.

  The hide peels back under my hands, revealing the glistening subcutaneous layer beneath. I feel each separation—the slight resistance before tissue yields. My fingers grow slick with blood and fat as I work the skin down toward the head, using my knuckles to create tension where the skin grips the strongest.

  "Keep it intact," I mutter to myself, not conversation but instruction. A damaged hide means wasted resources. Waisted resources mean death. The druid would approve of my technique—maximum efficiency, minimal effort, just as he taught me.

  When I reach the front legs, I cut carefully around each joint, then continue working the hide forward. The animal's body heat has already faded, making the process harder in the cold air. My breath forms small clouds as I work, the only sound being my controlled breathing and the occasional snap of connective tissue.

  The hide finally comes free in one piece. I immediately stretch it over a fallen log nearby, flesh side up, and use my knife to scrape the remaining tissue from the underside. Too cold to properly tan here, but preparation hear means less later. I will finish it properly at our winter camp.

  I return to the carcass, wiping my bloody hands briefly on pine needles as the gutting requires precision. Precision requires a solid grip and sure fingers. Both require said hands to be clean of blood and flesh. I make a shallow incision at the lower abdomen, careful not to puncture the intestines. The knife parts muscle with minimal resistance, I extending the cut upward toward the sternum, then reach inside, feeling the warm organs against my fingers and palm.

  My fingers work by feel, locating the connective tissues that secure the intestinal tract before I sever each connection with small, controlled cuts, then carefully draw out the entrails in one piece. The metallic scent of blood mixes with the earthier smell of opened organs, though it will be some time before the scent draws something I can not handle, and I will be done by then. I examine the liver closely—healthy, no signs of parasites or disease. Good. The heart follows, then lungs, each inspected then sorted according to use.

  Nothing wasted. The organs I will eat now go into one pile, those with medicinal properties into another. Even what humans might consider waste has purpose. The intestines will become cordage once cleaned; the bladder will become a water container once shaped and cleaned.

  I clean the open cavity with handfuls of fresh snow, watching it turn pink, then red as I scoop it out. When satisfied, I begin the jointing process. My hands locate the ball joint where the rear leg meets the pelvis, rotating slightly to feel the connection. The knife finds the gap between bones, slicing through cartilage and tendons with minimal resistance.

  Each joint speaks to my fingers—telling me where to cut, how much pressure to apply. Each place to cut revealed through touch more than sight. I separate limbs, then divide the torso along the spine, my blade finding the spaces between each vertebra. The ribcage comes away from the backbone next, each careful cut following the anatomy of this particular creature.

  I work without sentiment. This animal is no longer an animal—it's resources. Meat for calories. Hide for warmth. Bones for tools. Nature's efficiency demands respect, not emotional attachment.

  When finished, I have transformed the carcass into portions organized by use and quality. The prime cuts I wrap carefully in large leaves secured with strips of inner bark. The tougher pieces require longer cooking but provide sustained energy. The organs must be consumed first. These calculations run automatically through my mind as I package each portion.

  I wipe my blade clean on moss, then use snow to clean blood from my hands until the skin reddens from cold rather than kill. My eyes never stop scanning the tree line—motion, sound, anything out of place. Predators smell blood from kilometers away. I've been careful, but vigilance is survival.

  The meat goes into the carrier I made for it, distribution of weight critical for the journey back. The hide I fold carefully, flesh sides together, and secure at the top of my pack. I gather the wrapped organs last, placing them where I can access them quickly if needed.

  The winter festival needs this meat. I calculate the number of calories, the protein content, how many it will feed. The Druid will be pleased with my contribution, though he won't say so directly, of course. he never does, not that I would accept such prase if he were to.

  I check the site once more before departing. No excessive blood trails to attract predators. No useful parts abandoned. The stone slab scraped clean of evidence. I retrieve my carrier with a smooth motion and adjust it across my shoulders, the familiar weight settling comfortably against my back, the organs packed into a bag tied to my belt.

  Time to move. The settlement is 14.2 kilometers southeast. If I maintain optimal pace, I'll arrive before nightfall. I orient myself by the sun's position, noting its angle above the horizon—perhaps four hours of daylight remaining. Enough time. I have gone farther with more.

  I slide into the forest's embrace, my steps leaving no trace. The hunt is complete. Now comes delivery of the resources, then preparation, then consumption. The cycle continues, as it always has, as it always will.

  ---

  My boots ghost across the snow as the sounds of merriment reach me on the frozen wind. The rasp of the Hurdy Gurdy, the melody of flutes, the rhythm of drums, and the chanting voices mix with the raucous sounds of men and women celebrating the festival of chill. Camp is now clearly visible, marked by a pillar of flame silhouetted against the cold grey sky.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  I shift the frame holding the disassembled deer carcass from last night and continue walking. Eventually, I enter the firelight, moving through the shadows cast by dancing men and women surrounding the central bonfire. The fire is tended by an old man with a long white beard and heavy staff. His gentle smile turns my way as he plays a stringed instrument—a Hurdy Gurdy, though I've seen nothing like it apart from this singular example in my twenty-one winters.

  "Tribute for the pot," I state, lowering the meat—now frozen and wrapped in its thoroughly scraped hide—to the ground at the old man's feet. At his nod, a dozen youngbloods move forward to start rendering the flesh and hide into useful items, flint knives flashing in their small hands.

  "You are the last," the old man says while standing, his long fingers never pausing as he plays the Hurdy Gurdy. "I was going to send a search party if you had been gone more than another day, Grace." His smile deepens the lines around his face. "I am glad you're home."

  I resist the urge to rip out the man's throat for that comment. I push down the desire to inform him that his help would do nothing for me, clamping my jaw shut to prevent the cold words from escaping—words explaining that if a search party were sent, I would be rescuing them rather than the reverse, as the forest is mine. I simply nod, and the old man smiles as if he knows my thoughts. He doesn't possess telepathy, but he probably knows me almost as well as I know myself, making mental powers unnecessary to read my reactions.

  "You are learning," the old druid says with a smile. "Good."

  "That obvious, old man?" I ask, curious despite myself. He's the only one I know who isn't unsettled by my presence, after all.

  "I've known you since you were a child," he replies simply. "If I didn't know how your mind works by now, I wouldn't be a very good druid, would I, little one?"

  "I am going to assist the cooks in rendering the flesh and marrow," I say, turning away. "Call me little one again, and I will stab you, Druid or not."

  "You will not join in the festivities?" he asks, ignoring my final words, as he often does. Though, the fact that I do not simply stab him is something he is aware of as well. "Baldric should be around here somewhere. Would take a look for him, but he's a dwarf, so it's not like we could catch a glimpse of him in this mosh."

  "They do not want me," I respond matter-of-factly. "All save you feel fear in my presence. As such, I will do what is required to continue our survival."

  "What of Baldric?" he asks. "He cares for you. A bit more than I would like, but you are not a child, and my desires mean little when it comes to matters outside the hunt and the kill."

  "His runic magic is useful to learn," I acknowledge. "And he's a good man to speak with when I want another's opinion, despite being unsettled by my presence like the others."

  "As you wish, child," the druid says, fingers never hesitating on his hurdy gurdy. "Though I would speak to him about it. I suspect he believes somewhat differently than you about your relationship." Under his breath, audible only due to my enhanced senses, he adds, "Lucky he's a fucking dwarf, or I'd accuse him of robbing the god-damn cradle with you, but he's not much older than you, least not among his kin, so I won't actually beat him to death."

  "Dance, pretty woman?"

  I turn, looking up, and up, and up until I see the thick red beard of a giant man. He stands at least eight and a half feet tall and four feet wide, all muscle, towering over me like a mountain given human form. I recognize him as an outsider immediately.

  "No," I reply flatly. "I am not one you should speak with, outsider. Not unless you wish to discuss the hunt. And since I've tasted the flesh your kind hunts and found it lacking, I doubt you'd interest me in speaking of that."

  "I am not of the Slayor Lords," the giant says, his bare chest muscles flexing as he shrugs. "Though yeah, our hunters aren't really as good as yours." He brings a massive hand down to pat the top of my head. "Foshdoor."

  "Give me headpats again," I say, voice flat, sharp teeth bared, "and I will rip out you're throat before eating it as you watch, outsider."

  "Right before," a gruff voice speaks behind us, accompanied by the heavy thunk of a crossbow being readied, "I shove this bolt so far up your cock that you shit metal, stumpy."

  I turn to see Baldric—four and a half feet tall, one remaining eye glaring, heavy crossbow clutched in thickly calloused hands while his thick, snow-covered bushey beard twitches with his rage, something I have always found curious. However, as it is not tactical, it is not important.

  "Good thing I have no further reason to give the girl headpats, then," the giant foreigner says, now grinning. "Though I would be honored for your lot to eat my flesh otherwise, since, well. It's not like I would be needing it if I was dead, after all."

  "As I still have to speak with you," the druid interjects, "I would rather you not die, frostborn."

  "Remember, you will eventually die," the giant says with a laugh. "Now I'll talk, but I'll leave your kin alone for a bit so I don't cause one of them incidents."

  The druid nods, and I turn away as Baldric stomps off, his prosthetic leg striking the snow with a heavy crunch as he grumbles about "fucking foreigners." I follow him on silent feet, my slight weight not breaking the snow's surface—a small application of vigger.

  "You good?" Baldric grunts as we walk. "Were out a long time."

  "It was nice in the silence," I reply honestly. "the herd went farther than I expected."

  "Always need to bring the biggest fucker for the pot," the short man says with a grin. "That be our Grace."

  I nod once in reply before falling silent. I have no reason to speak further as the merriment winds down. This celebration runs from sundown to sunrise, though few have the stamina to dance through the entire night, and I have no desire to fill the silence, as it will not be with tactical information.

  ---

  Hours later, I find myself perched high in a pine, activating the featherstep technique to distribute my weight across the narrow branch. A single glass of honeyed mead rests in my gloved hand while below me sits Balder on a thicker branch, his stockier frame requiring the sturdier support despite also using featherstep. His dwarvish nature grants him significantly larger vigger reserves than mine, though his regeneration rate is slower—a fair exchange, in my opinion.

  From my position, I observe without being observed—a tactical advantage that has always provided an unexpected form of comfort. Neither Balder nor the giant outsider have detected my presence, allowing me to listen to their conversation.

  "You care for her," the giant rumbles to Balder, his massive frame making the dwarf appear even smaller. "Yes? More than just one of your kin? More than just as one who is kin of the man who saved your life when you were young? Who ensured that you only lost an eye and a lower leg?"

  Something stirs within me at hearing myself discussed—not quite discomfort, not quite curiosity. An unfamiliar sensation I can't properly categorize. I take another measured sip of mead while analyzing Balder's reaction.

  "She is kind to me in her own way," Balder replies, shifting his position. "And that is rare. The others value me, yes, but I am not kin to them. They include me, yes, but they know it, and I know it. I am useful to them, nothing more. I do not blame them, but kin nonetheless I am not." He pauses. "She, her presence is not what most would wish to remain around, and so outsiders both, we find our kin."

  I process his assessment efficiently. His analysis is accurate—we occupy similar positions as outsiders. His physical differences create discomfort among the others. My nature does the same, though for different reasons. Perhaps this explains why I tolerate his presence. He accepts what I am without expecting something else.

  "Why did you not then ask her to dance?" the giant asks, his manipulative intent transparent in his tone, even if I can not read his scent from this distance. "I hoped you would, not cause a scene, but would be stirred to action once you saw me dancing with her, though would still be impressed if you could fire one of them bolts up my cock. Actually firing it so it doesn't just rip it apart? That takes skill, and your kind, Dwarves, are not known for that type of skill. The forge and anvil, yes, but the bow? One not of the axe? Your kind aren't known for that."

  I suppress a reaction, controlling my breathing to maintain stealth. The concept of dancing is tactically irrelevant—an inefficient social ritual with no survival value and thus nothing that I would find value in. At least Balder understands this reality about me and doesn't waste effort pursuing impossible outcomes. His assessment of my boundaries demonstrates practical intelligence that I find, pleaseing.

  "What of you?" Balder counters. "Why have you come from the lands of beasts, then? The lands of dragons and mammoths? Why have you braved the icebound sea to come to this shit hole? Home it may be, but shit hole it remains nonetheless, and your kin love your mead-halls too much to travel here without a quarry to hunt. Shit hunters of beasts you may be, but of men and monsters? Steel and silver? Those whom you can test your strength against? Hunters of them you have aplenty, and good ones at that."

  My attention sharpens. This question holds tactical value. Our settlement does not receive visitors without significant purpose, particularly those who cross the icebound sea, filled with it's own inedible monsters. The giant's presence represents a potential variable in our survival equation—one that requires assessment before I decide weather or not he is an asset or liability.

  I adjust my position slightly to hear better, maintaining perfect balance while minimizing movement. Whatever information follows could prove critical for anticipating potential threats or opportunities, after all.

  "A brother's call is a brother's call," the giant responds, his deep voice suddenly weighted with genuine emotion. "And I answer when I hear it, as they answer when I call. Kin is kin if not by blood, and mother-bound is our kind bonded. Memories of the past, of happier times when my hands did not drip with blood, burrowing into the fertile earth, the Vidkies runeskjalds telling me of the ending time. The god's death, and final winter. The time hence spring shall not come."

  My fingers tighten around my mead horn. An ending? A final winter? The words send an unfamiliar chill through me that has nothing to do with the cold. So this is why the druid has been gathering strangers—the man dressed in bone, this giant, others I've seen at the edges of our camp over these last weeks.

  "If I can assist in its prevention?" the giant continues. "I would far more than brave the icy depths, brother of the flame and the hammer, brother of the axe and the skjald around the hearth. I and mine would do much for that. Gunner and the others of my kin who came with me."

  "Doesn't seem so bad," Balder says with a shrug. "From one man to another? Struggle now, and at least you know what you're struggling for at the end. To prevent the ending? When the forges go out and the holds grow cold, when the hammers' ring calls not? Time has a way of sanding our purpose clear, and you and yours have it now. Me though?" He scoffs, a short snort through his nose that I hear clearly even from my position. "I'm just a man waiting to die in a ditch somewhere, while the only one who gives a fuck about me is little more than a child. Who would, upon finding my corpse, turn it into resources the same way she did that dear."

  I consider this. Meat is meat. Balder, if he found me, would do likewise. It would be the tactical solution. The correct solution. Survival cares not about emotions. Survival cares about actions. Choices. Meat and hides and bones for tools.

  The giant's focus shifts, before he takes in a deep breath, still naked chest expanding like a bellows I glimpsed once from a traveling merchant. "The girl. She values you?" He's speaking of me now. "You value her for treating you as kin, but her? She is not of this earth, and she knows that, deep. Why does she see you as clan and kin? Why does she see you as blood? As unkindled flame to her chill that bites? You and the old man are all she tolerates, and I would know why, if only to sing this story better to my kin around our hearth when I return home."

  I nearly drop my horn. Not of this earth? What does he mean? The words hit me like an arrow to the chest, stirring something buried deep in memory—something I cannot quite grasp. A voice, soft. Gentle hands, though calloused. A face that meant safety. A warm harth, in a room of stone.

  "She values me for my runic magic," Balder replies, and I'm grateful for his simple honesty. He doesn't try to fabricate some deeper bond that doesn't exist. "Though for what else, I do not know, and nor do I care. Being called as kin after so long is enough for me. It eases the ache in my bones and stirs the embers in my soul."

  I've never considered that Balder might need that acceptance as much as I need his knowledge. Perhaps our arrangement isn't as purely practical as I'd thought. This does not mean, however, that I would expect him to not render my flesh and bones down to useful survival tools when I no-longer require them, as I would likewise.

  "Aye," the giant rumbles softly. "True enough, that, to be called kin. True kin, from one who knows your sorrow and pain... I won't push further on that, then." Balder grunts, half laugh and half snort, which I recognize as his way of agreeing without words.

  A new voice draws my attention away from their conversation. At the edge of the trees stands a tall, gaunt man, his sunken eyes fixed on the druid.

  "May I sit by your fire, killer of my daughter?" the stranger asks. His voice carrying the hollow quality that marks him as a wielder of death magic.

  "Do not harm my people," the druid replies, having stowed his hurdy gurdy, "and you may, Kairn. Enemy you see me, but I see you as kin, and any kin of mine is welcome at my fire."

  I shift my position slightly in-order to get a better vantage point. The gaunt man—Kairn—nods before entering the circle of firelight.

  "This man!" He speaks, pointing at the druid. "Killed my kin. As such, I demand a blood price be paid—a guild of flesh and life. Flesh for flesh. Blood for blood. Soul for soul for soul. When I stand, we shall fight, and at that time, I will give my child the rest she desires, and then I shall leave without rancor for you and yours, though you may call me monster and worse."

  "Accepted," the old man responds, drawing two long bone knives from his robes. Interesting—they appear similar to mine, though I've never seen him use them before. "Although I shall not have you harm my men, regardless of the outcome."

  "I have no truck with yours, druid," Kairn states as death mana flares around him before fading. "But if I must swear to not harm yours after I cut you down? I shall do so, and do so gladly. I assume the ragewalker? He of the frenzied flame?" He nods towards the giant.

  "Agreed," the druid speaks. Around the clearing, nearly all the rangers—myself excluded—raise their bows to point at the revealed necromancer. "None interfere who stand within this gathering. This sin is mine, and its resolution is mine to bear, and mine alone."

  The rangers lower their weapons reluctantly, though I notice they keep arrows nocked. The strings are no longer drawn, but that poses little challenge for a trained archer of our blood.

  "Terms for you, Necromancer?" the old man asks, practical even now.

  "Only that none of your kin attack me when I cut you down, and do not harm me until one hour after I have left this clearing," Kairn intones. "Apart from that? I shall not ask for meat and salt, as I am planning to cut down my host, and I do not flaunt the laws of men lightly. Though life and death are bendable, the laws of men and gods are not."

  "Agreed," the druid says. "I wish you only to rest. Rest with your daughter somewhere far from this blighted world. A beach perhaps? Rest and raise her into the woman she deserved to become before the abomination."

  With those words, the druid moves with unexpected speed, bone knives flashing in his weathered hands. The firelight catches their ivory surfaces, revealing subtle carvings I've never noticed before. Each knife moves independently—the right sweeping low toward Kairn's abdomen while the left slashes toward his throat. The necromancer's reflexes are impressive as he steps back with fluid grace, drawing twin sickles from beneath his ragged cloak in a single motion. The curved metal catches the firelight with an unnatural gleam, too bright for simple steel.

  The druid presses forward despite his initial miss, bone knives weaving a complex pattern. His movements belie his apparent age—each step precise, each twist of his body economical. Left blade fainting high while right blade follows through, forcing Kairn to block awkwardly with his off-hand sickle. The necromancer deflects the blow, metal scraping against bone with a sound that sets my teeth on edge.

  Kairn counters with a fluid sequence of his own. His right sickle sweeps downward in a vicious arc while his left thrusts straight ahead, forcing the druid to defend on two fronts simultaneously. The old man blocks the thrust with his right knife while sidestepping the sweeping attack, but his movements aren't as quick as they once were. The tip of Kairn's blade catches his sleeve, tearing the fabric but missing flesh.

  The combatants separate momentarily, circling each other around the edge of the fire pit. Shadows dance across their faces, distorting their expressions into grotesque masks. The druid's eyes never leave his opponent, his breathing controlled despite the combat. Kairn moves with the unnatural grace I've witnessed in other death magic practitioners—as if partially disconnected from physical limitations.

  They clash again, blades meeting in a flurry too fast to fully track, even for me. The druid spins inside Kairn's guard, bone knives seeking vulnerable points. One blade scores a shallow cut along the necromancer's forearm, drawing first blood. Dark liquid spatters against the snow, steaming slightly in the cold air. Kairn hisses but doesn't retreat, instead pressing forward with renewed intensity.

  The druid continues his spinning motion, using the momentum to power his next attack. But Kairn anticipates the move, shifting his weight to counter. Their weapons lock briefly, faces inches apart as each strains against the other. The druid breaks the deadlock with a sudden backward step, causing Kairn to stumble forward before regaining his balance.

  From my perch, I can see what others cannot—the druid is tiring while Kairn seems to draw energy from the confrontation itself. Each exchange leaves the old man fractionally slower, his movements infinitesimally less precise. The necromancer senses this too, his attacks becoming more aggressive, more confident.

  The decisive moment comes after a particularly intense exchange. The druid blocks three consecutive strikes but fails to counter effectively. His breathing has become more labored, his movements less fluid. Kairn feints with his right sickle, drawing the druid's attention before sweeping his leg with a low kick. The old man loses his balance, falling backward.

  With horrifying speed, Kairn pounces. The druid manages to deflect one sickle with his left knife, but his right arm is pinned. The necromancer raises his free blade, angling it precisely toward the druid's exposed eye. The curved metal gleams with killing purpose, sharp inner blade winking in the firelight.

  Something inside me fractures. A lifetime of suppressed emotion suddenly crashes through carefully constructed barriers. The druid—my teacher, my mentor, the only one who ever saw me as more than a weapon—is about to die.

  My bow is in my hands, an arrow nocked, drawn, and released in less than a heartbeat. The motion is so ingrained I don't need to think about it. The arrow flies with perfect accuracy toward Kairn's skull—a shot I've made a thousand times before. It never misses. It never has.

  In the microsecond before impact, Kairn senses the attack. His head starts to turn, eyes widening before with inhuman reflexes, he yanks the druid upward, using him as a shield. My arrow—my perfect, unerring arrow—strikes, burrying itself in the Druid's skull as it's twin had done with the dear earlier with a soft thud.

  As the bone tip pierces the druid's skull just above his left temple, his body goes rigid, then slack. For a brief moment, his eyes find mine across the distance. There's no accusation in them, no anger—only a strange, terrible understanding, as if this moment had been anticipated, perhaps even planned.

  Then light erupts from the wound—not blood, but pure, blinding radiance. It flows outward from the entry point, crawling across his skin like liquid lightning. The light intensifies, pulsing with impossible brightness, consuming the druid's form completely. Kairn stumbles backward, shielding his eyes, his victory forgotten.

  The radiance expands exponentially, swallowing the fire pit, then the clearing, then everything. It's unlike anything I've ever encountered—not fire, not electricity, not any natural force. It feels ancient and purposeful, a manifestation of power beyond simple categorization. The light has weight, presence, intent.

  As it reaches me, I feel my connection to the branch beneath me dissolve. My body becomes insubstantial, dissolving into the all-consuming brilliance. I'm falling, but there's no ground below, no sky above, only endless radiance stretching in all directions. My senses fail me one by one—first touch, then smell, then hearing, until only sight remains, and even that is overwhelmed by unending white.

  As consciousness begins to slip away, I don't calculate survival probabilities or plan tactical responses as I've been trained to do. Instead, my mind fills with a single, unfamiliar emotion: regret. Pure and devastating. Not for my own fate—that has never concerned me—but for the druid. For the father I've just killed with my own perfect skill. It's the last coherent thought I have before the white takes everything, and I sease.

  ---Jason---

  #strange dreams

  I hover about a foot above untouched snow, disoriented and confused. The clearing where the old druid and the young archer woman stood seconds ago now contains nothing but a smoking crater. A magical mushroom cloud rises from it, shimmering with an otherworldly light that I can somehow actually see despite having never seen anything in my life.

  Any minute now, I'll wake up—I always do when these recurring dreams get weird. But instead of fading, the scene around me sharpens. The biting cold against my skin feels too real, the scent of pine and ozone too vivid for a normal dream. The bright flash that always consumes everything is gone, yet here I still am.

  "Put on some motherfucking pants, boy!" bellows a massive, fur-clad giant with a scarred face. His voice carries through the winter air like an avalanche. A monstrous blade strapped to his back seems to freeze the very air around it, ice crystals forming and dissipating in its wake. "If I wanted to see a man's cock and balls hanging out in the fucking cold, then I'd god-damn pay for it. Also, your balls will fucking freeze if you leave them hanging out like that, and trust me when I say you don't want some doctor sawing them off with a rusty butter knife without even mead to dull the pain later."

  Wait, what? I glance down and realize with horror that I'm completely naked in what must be at least -30°C. The snow beneath my hovering feet looks pristine and untouched, yet I can feel the cold radiating from it burrowing into my bones.

  "Agreed," adds the younger man—the necromancer, I think—turning to look directly at me. His sunken eyes hold a strange mixture of amusement and calculation. "There's also a fuck-ton of very angry rangers who really want to murderize something, and you aren't protected by the agreement, nor built like that giant bastard there. Plus, I don't want to get mooned every time I kill a man. Makes corpse identification awkward, you know?"

  "The hell?" I mutter, trying to cover myself with my hands. My gaze shifts to the tree line where dozens of people in firs have emerged, their bows drawn and aimed at me. Unlike previous versions of this dream, there's a murderous rage in their eyes, and I realize with mounting dread that I'm witnessing a new chapter of this bizarre recurring nightmare. Also, there looking right at me. Which is not a good thing.

  Before I can process this and start screaming, because what else would you do in this situation? They let loose. The sound of bowstrings snapping reaches me a split second before the arrows do. Dozens of barbed projectiles pepper my body, each impact bringing a fresh wave of agony. Some of the rangers charge forward at impossible speeds after the arrows, bone knives in hand that look more like short swords than anything else, their movements bluring as they close the distance.

  I scream and throw my arms up to shield myself—

  —only to slam my hands painfully into my bedframe. I jolt awake, my body drenched in sweat, the phantom pain of arrows and blades still tingling across my skin. Dawson's wet nose presses against my cheek as he licks my face, whining softly in concern.

  "Yeah, yeah, I'm okay," I mutter, gently pushing his face away. His fur feels coarse against my palm—a familiar, comforting sensation that helps ground me back in reality. I'm back to my normal state of non-sight—not darkness, just... nothing, though right now, it's better than lots of angry fir-clad knife-wielding locals trying to stab me to death, then probably eat me. Figures I get the chance to see, as uposed to just haveing no visual input, and end up getting stabbbed, even in dreams. Fucking febuarry, and they say it's the worst month of the year, or that's why I think we got family day?

  I sit up with a huff, my breathing still ragged. My sheets are soaked with sweat, clinging uncomfortably to my skin. I reach for my phone on the nightstand, my fingers finding it exactly where I always place it. A quick tap and the automated voice announces, "Six-zero-five AM."

  "Fuck this," I grunt, "not going back to sleep after that shit. Might as well start the day now."

  I slide out of bed, my feet finding the floor exactly where I expect it. The floorboards creak slightly as I stand—the third one from my bed always does. I move toward my desk with practiced steps, counting them automatically, and find the neatly folded clothes I always leave there.

  The routine helps calm my racing mind, though I can't shake the lingering sensations from the dream. That archer woman's presence hovers in my memory—in the dream, I could see her sharp, defined features and intense green eyes that seemed to calculate everything around her. There was something compelling about her, a fierce energy wrapped in danger and trauma.

  I catch myself and mentally beat said thoughts with something heavy and weighted at one end till they fade. God, what kind of person am I to find her attractive when she's clearly in a messed-up situation? The woman just killed someone—her mentor, apparently—with an arrow to the skull. And here I am thinking about how striking she seemed while doing it. Maybe I've been single too long. Or maybe I need therapy. Probably both.

  After making my bed—hospital corners, just the way mom taught me—I head downstairs for my morning routine. Fifteen minutes on the treadmill to warm up, the machine's control panel familiar under my fingertips. The steady rhythm of my feet hitting the belt creates a meditation of sorts, though my mind keeps drifting back to that dream. The smell of pine. The cold. The archer's presence, somehow both predatory and vulnerable at once. Yeah, it's both, though how I'm going to explain to the doctor that, yeah, 'I had a dream where I got stabbed, and found this archer woman attractive?' isn't something I want to think about right now.

  After my run, I change into work clothes and make my way to the kitchen. The layout is so familiar I could navigate it during a blackout. I open the fridge, my fingers finding the drawer where bacon should be.

  "Damn it," I grumble when I discover it empty. Plan B it is. I grab the box of cereal from the third cabinet, the one with the dented corner, and pour some into a bowl. The milk comes next, measuring by sound and feel until it's just right. I start shoveling it into my face, only slowing down when I nearly choke on a spoonful because that would be a really shit way to go, and then who would take care of Dawson?

  "Way to go, Jason. Survive a nightmare only to choke to death on Captain Crunch. That would make a great obituary, at least."

  After finishing, I rinse my bowl and spoon carefully, making sure they're clean by feel before placing them in the dishwasher. The shower calls next, and I crank the temperature as hot as I can stand without scalding myself. The water cascades over me, washing away the sweat and lingering unease and memories of that dam cold. Not the stabbings, but it's better then nothing.

  As I stand under the spray, the dream refuses to fade like normal dreams should. It remains crystal clear—the old druid with his hurdy gurdy, the archer woman with her calculated movements, the giant with his booming voice, the necromancer with his hollow tones. And now, me—naked and being shot and violently stabbed with bone short sword knives.

  What's strangest is how I could see in the dream. Colors, expressions, visual details—all things I've never experienced in waking life. My brain shouldn't be able to construct anything like that, yet there they were, as real as any of my other senses.

  I twist the temperature knob to cold, letting the shock clear my head. The water turns icy against my skin, briefly mirroring the freezing air from my dream. No use dwelling on it now. I have work to get to, and weird dreams won't pay the bills.

  After drying off and dressing—layers are key in a Toronto winter—I grab my cane. The familiar weight of my winter coat settles over my shoulders as I prepare to head out. I can hear the wind whistling outside, promising sub-zero temperatures that will make my face sting without my hat pulled down and scarf pulled up.

  "Let's go face the day, huh?" I tell Dawson, who responds with an eager bark. I step outside into the Canadian winter, the cold immediately biting at my exposed skin, so similar to my dream that I shiver from more than just the temperature while gripping Dawson's leesh in my free hand.

  Fake it 'til you make it, right? Even if that means pretending I'm not being haunted by a dream woman with killer aim and a presence that somehow resonates through whatever bizarre corner of my brain invented the concept of sight just for these dreams. Just another Tuesday in the life of Jason Stone.