The descent was a blur of numbing wind and the mechanical thud of my boots against the permafrost. I wasn't just carrying my own weight anymore; I had Kaelen's arm draped over my shoulder, his breath coming in ragged, crystalline puffs. Behind us, the other three hunters stumbled through the snow, guided more by the silver hum of the Twin-Sun War Ax than by their own sight.
"Almost... there..." Kaelen wheezed. He looked at me—really looked at me—and I saw the pity in his eyes finally shatter, replaced by a raw, shivering terror.
I didn't blame him. I was a "potato-sized" construct of rusted iron and soul-residue, carrying a weapon that could cleave a mountain, accompanied by a ball of sentient plasma that was currently humming a jaunty, Tuneless victory march.
The Threshold: The Bone-Tooth Gates
The village of Bone-Tooth didn't greet us with cheers. As we breached the outer palisade, the sentries leveled their spears. To them, we were ghosts emerging from a white hell.
"Hold!" Kaelen roared, his voice cracking. He slumped against the gatepost. "It's... it's us. And the Guest-caller."
The silence that followed was heavier than the snow. The villagers gathered, their furs matted with rime. My "father," the Chieftain, pushed through the crowd. He looked at the rescued hunters—men he had already mourned—and then his gaze dropped to me.
Specifically, it dropped to the Twin-Sun War Ax.
Weapon Status: Satiated. The silver light dimmed to a low, rhythmic throb. It felt like a heartbeat in my hands.
"You went into the Weaver's Peak," the Chieftain said, his voice a low rumble. "No one survives the Weaver."
"The Weaver is gone," I said. My voice sounded different—less like grinding metal and more like the ringing of an anvil. "And your men are back. The debt is paid."
The Hearth-Fire Standoff
They took the hunters to the Great Lodge, but I stayed in the center of the square. I was too "wrong" to be invited inside. Ignis settled on my head, her heat melting a circle in the snow around my feet.
"They're staring, Crunchy Soul," she whispered, her flames a cautious violet. "And not the 'you're-cute' kind of staring. The 'let's-melt-him-down-for-horseshoes' kind."
The Internal Rift:
Option A: Demand the name I was promised.
Option B: Report the Weaver's final warning: The Great Winter comes for the Spark.
I chose the truth.
"The Weaver didn't just want their lives," I called out, my eyes locking with the Chieftain's. "It was building a web for something larger. A white tide is coming. An army of Rime-Hounds. And they aren't coming for your meat or your furs."
I pointed the Ax at the Great Lodge. "They're coming for the fires you keep. For the Spark that keeps this village from freezing into a grave."
The Chieftain's Verdict
The Chieftain stepped into the circle of melted snow. He reached out, his calloused hand hovering near the haft of the Ax. He flinched at the residual "Soul-Anchor" chill.
"You were a tool," he muttered, more to himself than to me. "A nameless thing we used to fetch water and carry stones. But a tool does not speak of tides. A tool does not bring back Kaelen."
He looked around at the murmuring villagers.
"Tonight, you sit at the high table. Not as a guest-caller. As a defender."
Progress Report: The Awakening