The ridgeline was a wall of stone and ice, ancient as the mountains themselves, scarred by a thousand battles. I climbed it with the others, my lungs burning with the effort, my legs screaming from Torvin's relentless training. The wind was worse here, cutting through my leathers like a blade, carrying the scent of snow and something else—something that made the ember in my core pulse with a rhythm I had never felt before.
The warriors moved in silence around me. There were no words now, no rallying cries, and no fierce declarations of northern pride. There was only the climb, and the wind, and the darkness that grew with each step.
Torvin reached the crest first. He stood there for a moment, his scarred face carved from stone, his pale eyes fixed on something I could not yet see. Then he stepped aside, and Runa took her place beside him and then the others, spreading out along the ridge in a line of fur and steel that stretched as far as I could see.
