"Heave! Heave! Heave!"
The repeated shouts of soldiers echoed across the frozen landscape, their voices rising in unity as they hauled the massive structure forward.
*Grrrnnch! *Grrrnnch! *Grrrnnch! *Grrrnnch!
The blizzard had finally passed, the winds now calm, but snow still crunched beneath their boots with each strained step.
Rope-bound and half-buried wheels screeched against ice as the object moved—an enormous device made of dark tal, strange symbols etched across its surface.
It was a ritual catalyst, forged long ago for a purpose only a few fully understood.
Up above, the skies remained grey and heavy with lingering clouds, but no fresh snow fell.
Dragons roared in the distance, their haunting cries echoing from the far mountains.
Yet none of them dared approach the convoy.
The mory of death—of their kin torn from the sky and ripped apart by blade and spell—still hung in the air like the scent of burnt flesh.
Even the mightiest of beasts understood caution when blood had already been spilled.
"Well done," Berkolex said calmly, his voice cutting through the cold as he watched the skies, his fur cloak swaying with the movent of his steps.
His sharp eyes followed the figures above—dragons circling at a cautious distance, silent shadows with wings stretched wide.
"The death of their brothers or sisters might’ve struck fear into them," he continued with a dry chuckle.
"Hah! For once, sothing in this cursed land knows its place."
Zendrell let out a quiet snort, his gloved hands gripping one of the ropes tied to the front of the tal structure.
Though high-ranked, he helped pull without complaint, muscles tensing beneath the thick hide of his armor. Snow clung to his boots, his breath puffing visibly in the cold air.
"Heh, it was no easy task," Zendrell said, rolling his shoulder before nodding toward the rear of the line.
He jerked his thumb behind him, motioning toward the two figures following at a slower pace—
Vendrael and Jirael.
Vendrael gave a quiet, subtle smile, raising a hand in recognition as he walked beside the dragging procession.
Though his face was calm, there was pride in his eyes. Jirael, on the other hand, remained silent.
Her hood was drawn low, shadowing her face.
She gave no smile, no nod—just quiet steps and a vacant stare. Her mind, clearly, was sowhere else.
Berkolex’s eyes lingered on her, the image of their earlier conversation still fresh in his mory. He rembered the pain in her voice, the tremor in her tone.
There were things she had not said aloud—but he’d heard the aning beneath every word.
Then, as if drawn by instinct, he glanced back.
Behind the soldiers and the monunt, a towering figure trudged through the snow, massive in both size and strength. A heavy black cloak wrapped the motionless figure on his back.
It was Garian.
Zendrell caught Berkolex’s shifting gaze and turned to look as well. His expression tensed at the sight.
"Is he really a lost cause?" Zendrell asked, voice quieter now, the usual sharpness dulled.
"Maybe if we do it fast, we’ll reach the capital before everything is too la—"
"No," Berkolex cut in, his voice firm.
"He’s at the final stage of eidra corruption. There’s no turning back now. After the ritual is complete, we must kill him. If not—he will transform into a beast far more dangerous than the ones we’ve fought."
Zendrell fell silent, his brows lowering as the gravity of the words settled in. He looked back at Jirael, at the stillness in her steps, the tension in her shoulders.
"A sha," Zendrell finally said. "The empire will lose a great scholar."
Berkolex exhaled through his nose, each breath misting in the cold air. His boots sank deeper into the snow as he walked forward.
"A sha indeed," he muttered, more softly this ti. The regret in his voice lingered only for a mont.
===
Several hours passed.
The march through the snow continued with slow, heavy steps, the cold growing stronger as they ascended higher ground.
The wind was calr here, the silence more pronounced.
Eventually, they arrived at their destination—an ancient plateau, its surface flat and wide, encircled by sharp cliffs and frozen stone pillars.
At the center of it all stood the monunt.
It rose like a spear into the heavens, tall beyond reason, its peak hidden in the low clouds above.
The structure was carved from black stone, smooth and weathered by centuries of wind and ice.
Its surface bore intricate carvings—scenes of war and conquest, mortal and beast locked in endless struggle.
Blazing ships drifted across space.
Armies clashed beneath the wings of great beasts.
At the heart of the monunt, a towering figure stood—a lone warrior wielding a massive blade, standing atop a mountain of fallen beasts.
"So this is it," Zendrell whispered, standing before it in awe.
He raised a gloved hand and brushed away the frost gathered along the edge of the carvings.
"A monunt of Askara... the third orphan of the Muradryn."
"Mhm," Berkolex murmured beside him, his gaze sweeping from the monunt’s base to the unseen peaks above.
"The third of five. Each monunt a step to the next... and at the end of it all, where the final fragnt of Askara rests."
"How many fragnts are there again?" Zendrell asked, curiosity creeping into his tone as he turned to the older man.
Berkolex gave an annoyed grunt, shaking his head.
"This is why you should’ve paid attention in class, idiot," he said, then sighed.
"There are twenty fragnts in total. Each one representing an orphan. Each one holding powers strong enough to either build an empire or reduce one to ash."
He paused, his voice turning heavier, more distant.
"If soone were to gather all twenty fragnts... they would resurrect the Muradryn. Not a legend. Not a symbol. But the true eidra, the god-force once wielded by the warriors of old... those who fought the ancient ones."
Zendrell blinked, tilting his head slightly.
"The ancient ones...?"
Berkolex turned his eyes toward the distant horizon, wind brushing through his hair as snow drifted across the monunt’s base.
"Primordial beings. The first that ever were. Born in the ti before ti—before the stars lit the sky and before the land had shape. They ruled everything... until the Muradryn appeared. Until the orphans rose."
Zendrell let the words settle, the sheer weight of the history washing over him.
There was sothing about this place that made ti feel slow.
Heavy.
As if each stone rembered what the world had tried to forget.
"And the fragnts... they were broken for a reason, weren’t they?" he finally asked.
Berkolex didn’t answer right away. He rubbed his brow, tired and cold.
"That... is a discussion for another ti," he said at last.
"Co. Let’s do this ritual. We don’t have much daylight left."
With that, the soldiers began to unload the structure.
Runes were aligned.
The ropes were pulled tighter.
Garian’s body was brought down, unconscious, still breathing—but barely. The black veins along his neck pulsed slowly, like a heartbeat within a corpse.
Jirael stepped forward, still hooded. She stared at the monunt, her gaze unreadable.
The ritual was about to begin.
And the cost was yet to be paid.
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