In the far cold reaches of an unknown realm...

A mountain stood tall among its frozen brethren, its jagged peaks clawing at the heavens as icy winds howled through the narrow passes. Snow-covered ridges stretched across the landscape, a sea of white-capped only by the towering spires of distant summits. But on the slopes of the tallest of these mountains, just beneath the silvered peak, there nestled a village like no other—one belonging to the mountain folk, hardy men and women born to the cold and raised by the winds.

The village seemed an extension of the mountain itself, built from the dark blue-hued winterwood that was unique to these highlands. The houses were sturdy, their walls gleaming with a frost-kissed sheen as though the wood held a life of its own, pulsating with an icy radiance. Every building was low to the ground, designed to weather the fierce tempests that swept through the range, and their roofs were thatched with snow-dusted pine. At the heart of the village stood a magnificent tree, larger than any other, its bark pale as the moon and its sprawling branches adorned with blueish-white leaves that shimmered in the cold sunlight. This tree, known as the Skyroot by the people, had been there longer than memory, its roots tangled deep within the mountain, said to touch the heart of the earth itself.

Children played beneath the Skyroot's branches, their laughter rising into the frosty air. Some pretended to be warriors, wielding wooden swords and shields, and shouting war cries that echoed through the crisp morning. Others ran in wild circles, chasing one another with the abandon only youth could afford, their footprints marking temporary trails in the snow that would soon vanish with the next gust of wind.

But high above them, perched on a low-hanging branch of the Skyroot, sat a boy with short dark hair, his back to the world below. Xarven, bundled in a fur coat that had seen better days, worked methodically with a small carving knife, etching strange markings into the pale bark. His hand moved in rhythmic precision, cutting deep into the tree with deliberate strokes. His eyes, dark and stormy like the skies over the mountains, stared at the figures he carved—twisted shapes, distorted faces, unnatural forms that seemed to writhe and stretch even though they were frozen in the wood.

He stared at them in silence, unease crawling up his spine. These shapes, these entities... they unnerved him. They had no place here among the laughter of children, no right to exist in the light of day. And yet, every time his mind wandered, his hand would move on its own, bringing these unsettling figures to life on whatever surface he could find. He could not explain why, but each stroke of the blade filled him with a sense of dread. Why was he drawing them? And why did they seem so familiar?

"Still carving those weird things, huh?"

Xarven's grip tightened on his knife as he heard the voice. He turned slightly to see another boy, already halfway up the trunk of the Skyroot, his face flushed from the climb, a wide grin plastered across his wind-chapped cheeks. With nimble hands, the boy swung himself onto the branch next to Xarven, settling beside him with a soft thud. His name was James, and he'd been Xarven's best friend for as long as either could remember.

Xarven sighed, his gaze shifting back to the carvings. "Yeah," he muttered, though his voice was low, almost as if he didn't want to acknowledge the reality of what he was doing.

James tilted his head, glancing at the carvings with a frown, though it was more curious than concerned. "You always make 'em look so... creepy," he said, scratching his head. "Why not carve something normal? Like a bear or a sword or something?"

Xarven didn't respond immediately, his mind caught between the grotesque forms he had etched into the bark and the knot of fear that sat heavy in his chest. "I don’t know," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "They just… come to me."

James shrugged, unfazed, as if this was nothing new. "Well, as long as you're not carving me like that." He chuckled before launching into a rapid-fire recount of the latest prank he and the others had pulled on the village baker. "We snuck into his shop before dawn and swapped all the sugar with salt! You should've seen his face when he tasted the bread this morning!"

Xarven barely reacted. He let James' chatter wash over him, nodding occasionally, but his eyes remained on the twisted figures. The laughter of the children below faded into the background, and the wind carried the cold whispers of the mountain through the branches above. James might not have noticed, but Xarven did—something about these carvings felt wrong.

And it scared him more than he cared to admit.

James leaned back against the tree trunk, kicking his legs idly as he looked over at Xarven. "You know," he began with a mischievous glint in his eye, "if you carved people’s faces like that, we’d never have to worry about anyone messing with us. Just show them one of your weird creatures, and they’ll run screaming."

Xarven gave a half-hearted chuckle, but James wasn’t done. He leaned closer, squinting at the carvings on the tree. "You’ve been making them look even creepier lately. They’ve got way more… details. Like this one." He pointed to a distorted face Xarven had etched, its eyes too wide, its mouth twisted unnaturally. "It’s kind of freaky, Xar."

Xarven shrugged, trying to seem indifferent. "Just something to do," he muttered, deflecting the comment. But inside, his thoughts churned. He’s right, Xarven realized. They are getting more detailed. His hand had been moving without conscious thought, yet the figures came out more vivid, more grotesque each time. He wasn’t sure if it was just his imagination, but with every new carving, the figures felt… closer. As if they were waiting for him.

James, oblivious to Xarven’s internal worry, continued. "Maybe you could carve a monster baker next, all grumpy and angry about his ruined bread! Big ol' eyebrows and everything."

That finally earned a real laugh, though quiet, from Xarven. He shook his head, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You’ve always got some ridiculous idea," he said, though the tension in his shoulders remained.

"Well, someone’s gotta get you to smile," James replied, puffing out his chest in mock pride. "You don’t laugh at anything these days. And you never join in on the fun. Like when we pulled that prank on the blacksmith—you didn’t even want to help. You’re missing out!"

Xarven shrugged. "Not really my thing. Besides, someone’s got to stay out of trouble."

"Trouble's half the fun," James said, swinging his legs. "But, yeah, you were never one for pranks, were you?"

Before Xarven could answer, the sound of heavy footsteps drew their attention. A figure approached the base of the Skyroot, moving with purpose. Hord, the caretaker of the orphanage, stood tall and imposing. His age hadn’t diminished the strength of his frame; his muscles, still visible beneath his thick winter coat, spoke of years of training and discipline. His eyes, sharp and watchful, missed nothing.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

"Children," Hord called out, his voice as deep and steady as the mountain itself. "It’s time. Lessons await."

The children’s playful chatter quieted as they gathered around, though they did so with reluctant groans. Hord’s lessons were far from easy. He demanded much of them, teaching them the skills needed to survive in the harsh mountain environment, from combat to survival tactics.

James slumped, leaning closer to Xarven. "Here we go again. More ‘stressful’ lessons," he muttered. "Why do we need to learn all this anyway? We’re ten years old, Xar. It’s not like we’re going to be out on our own any time soon."

Xarven’s gaze shifted to the gathering children as they began to make their way toward Hord. "The skills he teaches us are important," Xarven said quietly. "If we want to survive here, we need to know how to take care of ourselves."

James snorted, folding his arms. "We don’t need to know how to start fires or hunt for food. When we’re older, we’ll leave this place. Move to one of the big cities in the main realm, where none of this stuff matters."

Xarven shook his head, his expression serious. "Not everyone gets that choice, James."

"Yeah, well, I’ll take my chances with the city life." James stretched, glancing down at the gathering group of children. "Guess we should head down before Hord sends someone up after us."

Together, they climbed down from the tree, their feet crunching softly in the snow as they joined the others. Xarven’s thoughts lingered on James’ words about the carvings. How long before someone else notices? The unease gnawed at him, but he pushed it aside. For now.

As they walked toward the orphanage on the edge of the village, a familiar voice called out. "Hey, little ones!"

Frida, James’ older sister, strode toward them, her brown hair swinging in a loose braid over her shoulder. She was fifteen, with a sharp gaze that always seemed to miss nothing and a playful smirk that matched her brother’s.

"Stuck with lessons again, huh?" she teased, falling into step beside Xarven and James.

James sighed. "It sucks. Wish we were done with ours like you."

Frida laughed and nudged her brother playfully. "You can keep on wishing."

As they neared, Hord gave Frida a nod, his voice warming slightly. "Frida, finished with your work at the blacksmith’s?"

"Yep," Frida replied, a familiar smile lighting up her face. "Mind if I join you on your way back?"

"Of course," Hord said, his expression softening like a father looking over his children. "It is your home anyway."

As the group made their way toward the orphanage, the routine of their lives settled in. Despite the strange carvings and the shadows lurking in the back of Xarven’s mind, the familiar steadiness of the village, Hord’s strength, and his friends grounded him. For now, it was enough.

----------------------------------------

The orphanage stood at the edge of the village, nestled against the steep incline of the mountain, its architecture blending seamlessly into the cold, rugged landscape. Built from thick, bluish winter wood and stone, the structure reflected the Nordic roots of the people who called this mountain range home. The roof was steep and slanted, designed to shed snow with ease, and intricate carvings adorned the beams above the door—depictions of mountain beasts, swirling wind, and trees. Large, fur-lined windows let in the sparse sunlight that reached this high, while thick animal skins and woven tapestries covered the walls inside, providing warmth and comfort in the harsh winter months.

As the group approached, the smell of wood smoke and freshly baked bread drifted out from the hearth, a comforting reminder of the warmth that waited within. The orphanage was divided into two parts: one side for the boys, who took up more physical training and survival skills, and the other side for the girls, who often learned more homely skills. Yet, the division was not strict—boys were welcome to join in sewing lessons if they wished, though few volunteered to prick their fingers on needles. Likewise, girls could join in on gutting animals or learning combat, though fewer found pleasure in such tasks.

Frida, always confident in her path, split from the group to head toward the orphanage’s main hall. "I’ll see you guys later," she called back to Xarven and James, her steps light and quick. She was headed inside to meet Loren, Hord’s wife and the other caretaker of the orphanage, who had taken on the role of teaching the girls more homely activities like sewing, weaving, and basic healing. Loren had a patient demeanor, her gray hair always tied in a neat bun, her hands skilled with both needle and salve.

Inside, the sound of light chatter and the soft click of needles working through fabric greeted Frida as she entered the room. Loren looked up from her station near the fire and smiled warmly at the girl. "Good timing, Frida. We’ve just started patching up some of the clothes for winter."

Frida grinned, pulling off her coat. "I’m ready." She loved these moments—working with her hands and listening to Loren’s stories of the old days, before the mountain villages were as fortified as they were now.

Outside, Hord led the group of boys—including Xarven and James—toward a small stretch of land beside the orphanage, where a few wooden posts and ropes were set up for practical lessons. The air here was crisp, the cold biting at their faces, but none of them complained. They had grown used to the chill. It was a constant reminder of their home.

Hord stood before them, his muscular arms crossed, his posture as solid as the mountain itself. "Today, we’re going to focus on navigation," he began in his deep, commanding voice. "Whether you’re in the mountains, the forests, deserts, or even at sea, you need to know how to find your way and how to read the land. You never know where you might end up or when you’ll need to rely on your knowledge to survive."

James leaned over to Xarven, whispering with a grin, "Well, I know if I end up at sea, something’s gone wrong. I don’t think I’d be very useful on a boat."

Xarven smirked, shaking his head as Hord continued, unfazed by the muttering. "In the mountains," Hord said, pointing to the range behind them, "you have natural landmarks. Peaks, valleys, rivers. Always know which way the river flows. It’ll lead you to settlements or at least down from higher ground." He grabbed a stick and began to draw a rough map in the snow, outlining the basics of the mountain range around them.

"In forests," he continued, "you look for things like moss on the north side of trees, tracks in the underbrush, or the position of the sun. Always know where the sun rises and sets. That’ll tell you east from west. And deserts..." he paused, eyeing the boys. "That’s where it gets tricky. In the desert, there are fewer landmarks. You have to rely on the stars or patterns in the sand."

James couldn’t help himself. "So, what you’re saying is... if we’re in the desert, we’re probably toast?"

A few of the boys snickered, but Hord’s stern gaze silenced them quickly. "You’re only toast if you don’t prepare. Learn the skills, and you’ll survive anywhere. Neglect them, and even this mountain will swallow you whole."

Xarven focused on Hord’s words, absorbing them. He knew these lessons were valuable—more than valuable. They were life-saving. The mountains were dangerous, and no one could predict when a storm or an unexpected event would force them into situations where they’d have to fend for themselves.

"At sea," Hord continued, moving on, "you rely on the stars, the waves, and the wind. If you don’t know how to read them, you’ll be lost."

James whispered again, "Stars? Waves? Guess we’re going to need a lot more lessons before we’re sailing anywhere."

This time, Xarven allowed himself a small chuckle. It was typical of James to find humor even in the most serious moments, but it helped to lighten the mood.

Hord caught the exchange but didn’t comment, his expression softening slightly. He knew that even though James joked, the boy still learned. And when the time came, he’d be ready.

"Now," Hord said, gesturing to the posts and ropes, "we’ll start with your fitness training. Each of you will navigate a small course. Remember, it’s not just about speed—it’s about awareness. Pay attention to your surroundings."

As the boys set off to practice, Xarven’s mind wandered briefly back to the strange carvings in the tree. He knew he needed to focus, but those distorted faces kept creeping into his thoughts, unsettling him. But for now, he had to push those worries aside. This was real, and here, focus meant survival.