Dawn rose over Oakhaven not in golden light but in a sickly, pale gray. The cold air felt like knives, and the silence that blanketed the village was heavier than usual. In his narrow room, Valerius had not slept. He had spent the night in deep meditation, restoring the spiritual energies he had spent and calming the storm within his soul. The fatigue of the gorge battle had faded, replaced by the cold composure that defined him.
When he stepped out of the inn, Boreas had already been fed and was ready to depart. Near the slightly opened main gate, a small group had gathered to see him off. Elder Elian was there, looking older under the wan morning light. Gregor stood with his arms crossed, his expression still hard, though there was a reluctant trace of respect in his eyes.
"May the gods protect you, Master Valerius," Elian said earnestly. "Our fate is in your hands."
"I do not rely on gods," Valerius replied. "I rely on myself."
Gregor snorted softly. "Just make sure your 'self' is strong enough. Don't die up there before we get our money's worth."
Before Valerius could answer the sarcasm, another figure stepped forward. It was the young woman from the meeting hall—the healer with the green eyes. She carried a small leather pouch.
"My name is Elara," she said, her voice soft yet steady. She held the pouch out to him. "It's not much, but there's hard bread, smoked meat, and a few salves for minor wounds. Your journey will be long."
Valerius looked at the pouch, then at her face. There was a sincere kindness there—kindness he had not encountered in a long time. It was dangerous kindness, the kind that could crack the walls of ice he had labored so hard to build around his heart.
"I did not ask for this," he said, his voice sharper than he intended.
Elara didn't flinch. A faint smile curved her lips. "I know. But no one should face the darkness alone, even if they choose to."
Her words struck deeper than any blade of ice. For a moment, Valerius fell silent. In her green eyes, he glimpsed echoes of a past he had tried to bury—echoes of trust and hope he once knew. With a stiff movement, he took the pouch. Their fingertips brushed. Her skin was warm against the morning chill, a sensation alien and unsettling.
Without another word, he tied the pouch to Boreas's saddle, mounted his horse, and stared straight ahead toward the northern mountains. He gave Elian a curt nod, ignored Gregor, and urged Boreas through the gate. He didn't look back, but he could feel Elara's gaze following him until he disappeared into the frozen woods.
The path to the Frozen Raven Fortress was marked on no map. It was a road made of legend and nightmare. The farther Valerius rode from Oakhaven, the more tangible the fortress's malevolent influence became. The forest grew twisted and sick. Pines that once stood tall were frozen in poses of agony, their branches warped like limbs caught in torment. The snow beneath Boreas's hooves was no longer clean white but stained with strange, blackish streaks.
Silence was his greatest enemy. No birdsong, no insect drone. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. Valerius relied on his instincts, feeling the faint current of dark energy like an underground river, guiding him to its source.
After hours of climbing treacherous terrain, he finally arrived.
The Frozen Raven Fortress rose before him like a giant fang piercing the sky. It was no beautiful structure. Made of jagged black basalt and unnaturally blue ice, it seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Spiked towers clawed at the grey clouds, and the entire edifice radiated an aura of hatred and despair so thick it pressed against his skin like a weight. No clear entrance presented itself—only sheer walls of stone and ice.
Valerius dismounted, patting Boreas's neck. "Wait here. Do not come closer."
He began walking along the fortress base, his eyes scanning every crevice, searching for a weakness. He could feel the powerful wards cloaking the walls—a dark shield that would annihilate any brute attempt to force entry. He needed a subtler way in.
That was when he felt it—a pulse of energy above him.
With reflexes honed by countless battles, he leapt aside. A heartbeat later, a fist-sized projectile of black ice slammed into the spot where he'd stood, exploding into razor-edged shards.
Valerius looked up. Perched atop one of the towers, a shape he'd taken for a weathered statue was moving. It was a gargoyle—but nothing like the ones he'd seen before. Its body was not stone, but dense black ice hardened by dark sorcery. Its batlike wings were translucent membranes laced with dull red veins that pulsed with baleful light. And its eyes… its eyes were twin hellish embers blazing from a nightmare visage.
The gargoyle let out a shrieking cry that split the silence—a screech like metal raked across stone. With a single powerful beat of its wings, it launched itself from the tower, diving straight toward Valerius.
Valerius stood his ground, unflinching. He raised his hand, cold air swirling around him, forming dancing crystals.
"Venator caeli, arcum et sagittam mihi da."(Hunter of the skies, grant me bow and arrow.)
An elegant longbow of pure ice formed in his left hand, and a glowing arrow appeared in his right. The fortress's first sentinel had revealed itself.
The battle to enter the demon's lair had begun.