CHAPTER 6: THE COST OF POWER

The longhouse was alive with warmth and sound, the cold night outside forgotten as villagers, orcs, and refugees filled the space with laughter and cheer. Makeshift decorations—woven garlands and flickering torches—adorned the room, their golden light dancing across the faces of Frostholm’s people. Tables were piled with food, a rare indulgence of freshly baked bread, roasted meats, and hearty stews. Mugs of ale and mead clinked in celebratory toasts, the air thick with the scent of smoke and spiced drink.

John sat near the head of the largest table, his wings folded tightly against his back. His attempts to blend into the crowd failed spectacularly as villagers approached him with wide eyes and endless questions.

“Did you really fight a warlock one-on-one?” one young man asked, his words slightly slurred.

“And did you summon that giant... bone... thing?” a woman added, miming exaggerated claws.

John raised his hands in mock surrender. “One question at a time, please. And yes, the ‘giant bone thing’ is called a Bone Golem. Very creative, I know.”

Magnus stood beside him, leaning casually against a pillar. “You should tell them you named it Fluffy,” he said dryly, earning a round of laughter from the onlookers. “Really, Bone Caller, you’re wasting an opportunity for dramatic flair.”

“I’ll leave the drama to you, Magnus,” John retorted, smirking.

Freya sat nearby, her injured ribs tightly bandaged. Despite the place of honor she occupied, she looked distinctly uncomfortable with the attention, her fingers drumming against her mug. Bjorn, ever the social blacksmith, leaned over with a grin. “You should relax, Freya. It’s a party!”

Freya arched a brow. “I’m relaxed,” she said flatly.

Bjorn’s grin widened as he raised his mug in a toast. “To Frostholm! And to our leaders, the Bone Caller and the Axe Bearer!”

The crowd erupted into cheers, though Freya muttered under her breath, “I’ll let that nickname slide because I’m injured.”

At a table near the hearth, Astrid rose dramatically, her voice booming above the noise. “Magnus!” she bellowed, pointing an accusing finger at the skeletal captain. “You’ve been mouthing off all night, but can you hold your ale?”

Magnus tilted his head, his sockets faintly glowing with amusement. “Astrid, I don’t even have a stomach.”

“Then you’ve got no excuse to lose!” she shot back, slamming two mugs onto the table.

The room erupted in laughter and cheers as Astrid poured ale into Magnus’s mug. The skeleton grabbed it, dipping his skull into the drink with exaggerated flair before setting it down, the liquid pouring from his hollow neck.

“Best ale I’ve ever tasted,” Magnus quipped, earning a roar of laughter from the crowd.

Not to be outdone, Astrid drained her mug in one go, slamming it onto the table. “I win!”

“Debatable,” Magnus replied, motioning to the puddle of ale on the table.

Meanwhile, a skeleton near the fire began mimicking Astrid’s celebratory dance, clattering its bones in a hilariously off-rhythm display. Villagers doubled over with laughter, and even Freya couldn’t help but crack a smile.

Bjorn, not to be outdone by the younger crowd, approached John with a large tankard of mead. “Come on, lad, loosen up! A drink won’t kill you.”

John raised a brow, gesturing to his wings and glowing runes. “Pretty sure I’m already past that point.”

Bjorn laughed heartily, slapping John on the back. “Then you’ve got nothing to lose!”

As he raised his tankard in a toast, one of the skeletons stumbled into him, sending the drink cascading over his head. Bjorn froze, dripping with mead, as the room exploded with laughter.

Freya smirked, raising her own mug. “Skeleton’s got better aim than you, Bjorn.”

As the night wore on, the revelry continued, with villagers and orcs mingling in rare camaraderie. John stepped outside into the cold night air, needing a moment of quiet. The laughter and music from the longhouse faded into the background as he gazed at the village.

Frostholm had grown—not just in size, but in spirit. The scars of battle were still fresh, but tonight, they celebrated their resilience.

“Taking a break from the chaos?” Freya’s voice came from behind him.

John turned, smiling faintly. “Just... needed a moment. It’s a lot.”

She stepped beside him, her breath fogging in the cold air. “It is. But look at them.” She nodded toward the longhouse, where the sounds of joy and unity spilled into the night. “This is why we fight. So they can have this.”

John nodded, the weight on his shoulders feeling a little lighter. “Yeah. And so we can keep it.”

As they stood in silence, the night sky stretched above them, and for the first time in a while, the future felt just a little brighter.

John knocked lightly on the door to Freya’s apartment, the faint glow of the village’s lanterns spilling into the hall. Inside, he heard the muffled sound of someone moving about, followed by a familiar voice, sharp and irritated.

“Come in before I have to get up,” Freya called.

John pushed the door open, finding Freya seated on a low wooden bench near her hearth. The warm light illuminated her sparse but practical space—her weapons were mounted neatly on the walls, and her armor was propped against a chair, still showing signs of wear from the recent battle. Freya, however, was far from at ease. She had stripped down to a simple tunic, her ribs wrapped tightly in fresh bandages that she was adjusting with more force than care.

Egil, the village shaman, stood nearby, his hands resting lightly on his staff. His weathered face bore a mixture of patience and exasperation. “If you keep pulling the bandages tighter, Freya, you’ll pass out before you can swing that axe again.”

“I’d rather pass out than sit around like an invalid,” she muttered, tugging at the wrappings.

Egil sighed and stepped back. “You’re impossible.” He nodded to John before retreating from the room, muttering something about stubborn warriors being worse than broken bones.

John closed the door behind him and leaned against the frame, crossing his arms. “You know, most people take an injury as a sign to rest. You’re doing a great job of ignoring that.”

Freya shot him a glare, though there was little real heat in it. “Resting doesn’t win battles, Bone Caller.”

“Neither does collapsing mid-fight,” John countered, his tone light but firm. “You don’t have to do everything alone, you know. That’s why we’re here—to carry some of the weight.”

Freya paused, her hands stilling on the bandages. She let out a slow breath and leaned back against the wall. “It’s not that simple, John.”

“Why not?” he asked, stepping closer and pulling a chair to sit across from her.

She hesitated, her gaze fixed on the flickering flames in the hearth. “Because if I stop—if I look weak—people lose faith. They’ll think I can’t protect them, that I’m not fit to lead.”

John frowned. “Freya, no one here doubts you. You’re the reason half this village is still standing. You don’t have to prove anything to them—they already know.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but her shoulders sagged slightly, the tension easing. “Maybe. But it doesn’t feel that way sometimes.”

John leaned forward, his wings shifting slightly. “I get it. I feel the same way. Every time I summon another skeleton or build another golem, there’s a voice in the back of my head telling me it’s not enough, that I’ll mess it up, and people will suffer for it.”

Freya glanced at him, her sharp eyes softening. “You? You’re the one they won’t stop talking about. ‘The Bone Caller this,’ ‘the Bone Caller that.’ I don’t think I’ve heard my name in a week.”

John chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, being the center of attention isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. You wouldn’t believe how many people asked me if I name my skeletons.”

Freya smirked. “Do you?”

“Of course not. Except for Magnus. And that’s only because he won’t stop naming himself.”

The laugh that escaped Freya was genuine, easing the tension in the room. She shook her head, wincing slightly as the motion pulled at her ribs.

“Look,” John said, his voice turning serious again. “No one expects you to be invincible. They follow you because you’re Freya, not because you can take a warhammer to the ribs and walk it off.”

Her gaze dropped to the floor, her fingers brushing the edge of the bench. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not,” John admitted. “But that’s why we’re a team. When you need to step back, I’ll step up. And when I’m on the verge of burning out, I know you’ll be there to drag me back.”

Freya looked at him, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then she smirked. “That’s fair. But don’t think I’m going to go easy on you just because you said something nice.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” John replied, standing and offering her a hand.

She took it, pulling herself to her feet with a wince. “Once I’m healed, we’re sparring. And I’ll remind you why they call me the Axe Bearer.”

“Looking forward to it,” John said with a grin.

As Freya settled back into her chair, John moved toward the door. He paused, glancing back. “Take it easy for a few days, alright? I’ll handle the heavy lifting.”

Freya waved him off, her smirk still in place. “Go on, Bone Caller. Before I make you spar me now.”

John laughed softly as he left, the door closing quietly behind him. For the first time in days, he felt like they were both on firmer ground.

The Command Headquarters hummed with quiet energy, its enchanted blue flames casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. The heart of the room, the interactive map table, glowed with a three-dimensional projection of Frostholm and the surrounding regions. The table pulsed faintly as markers moved in real-time, showing patrol routes, trade lines, and the faint edges of Varrosk’s influence.

John stood with his hands resting on the table’s edge, his wings slightly spread as he studied the map. Astrid leaned on her sword nearby, her sharp eyes scanning the glowing pathways. Bjorn stood on John’s other side, arms folded, his grizzled features thoughtful as he stroked his beard.

“Two routes stand out,” John said, pointing to the glowing lines on the map. “This one leads to a resource hub that’s rumored to have ancient forges and trade connections. If we can claim it, we might secure supplies and potential allies.”

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Astrid tilted her head, a smirk playing on her lips. “Big if, Bone Caller. That route cuts close to Varrosk’s borders. They’ll be watching it like hawks.”

John nodded. “True. The second route,” he gestured to a more meandering path, “is less contested, but it offers fewer immediate benefits. A safer option, but not as impactful.”

Bjorn grunted. “Safe doesn’t win wars. You said it yourself—Varrosk won’t wait for us to get comfortable.”

Astrid chuckled, tapping her sword against the ground. “Bjorn’s got a point. But that first route? It’s a gauntlet. If we don’t plan this perfectly, we’ll lose more than we gain.”

The door creaked open, and Freya entered, leaning heavily on her axe but radiating determination. Her bandages were clean but snug, and her steps, though slower than usual, were firm. She nodded at the group, her voice steady despite her injury. “What’s this about losing? Don’t tell me you’re going soft, Astrid.”

Astrid rolled her eyes. “I’d go soft before you’d go quiet, Freya.”

John hid a smirk as Freya joined them at the table. Her gaze swept over the map, narrowing at the highlighted routes. “The bolder path is the right call.”

Astrid arched a brow. “Care to explain, oh wise Axe Bearer?”

Freya ignored the nickname, tapping the map near the first route. “Varrosk’s already pushing south. If we don’t challenge them here, they’ll solidify their control over the river. This hub could be the difference between holding Frostholm and being surrounded.”

Bjorn nodded in agreement, his voice low. “She’s right. If we strike hard and fast, we might catch them off guard.”

Astrid crossed her arms, her smirk fading into a more serious expression. “Alright. But if we’re doing this, we need more than luck and skeletons. What’s the plan, Bone Caller?”

John leaned forward, his wings folding neatly against his back as he outlined the strategy. “First, we fortify Frostholm. If Varrosk retaliates, we need to hold the village. That means more ships, more undead, and better defenses along the river.”

“Agreed,” Freya said, her tone firm. “We also need scouts. If there’s a weakness in Varrosk’s patrols, we find it before we commit.”

Astrid tapped the table, a spark of excitement in her eyes. “And when we do hit them, we go for the throat. No drawn-out battles—strike hard, take what we need, and get out before they can regroup.”

John nodded, his gaze sweeping over the map. “A phased approach, then. Step one: build our forces. Step two: scout the routes. Step three: claim the hub.”

Freya rested her hand on her axe, her sharp gaze meeting John’s. “It’s risky, but it’s the right move. And if we pull this off, it’ll send a message.”

Astrid smirked. “Varrosk won’t know what hit them.”

Bjorn grunted in approval. “Let’s make it happen. But remember, the bolder the move, the heavier the cost. Be ready to pay it.”

John exhaled, the weight of their choices settling on his shoulders. He straightened, his voice steady as he looked at each of them in turn. “We’re not just fighting for Frostholm anymore. We’re fighting to prove we can stand against anyone. And we will.”

Freya smirked faintly, leaning on her axe. “Good speech. Don’t screw it up.”

Astrid chuckled. “You heard the lady. No pressure.”

The group dispersed, each heading to their tasks. John lingered at the map table, his gaze fixed on the glowing lines. The battle for Frostholm’s future was just beginning, and the path ahead was as treacherous as it was vital. But, he felt ready to lead the charge.

The outskirts of Frostholm were eerily quiet, save for the occasional murmur from the gathered crowd. Villagers, orcs, and skeletons formed a loose semicircle, their gazes fixed on John as he stood at the center of a cleared ritual space. Piles of bones, carefully arranged in neat mounds, glowed faintly under the light of the rune-inscribed torches lining the area.

John flexed his fingers, the runes on his arms pulsing faintly as he prepared to channel the enormous amount of energy required for the ritual. His wings were tucked tightly against his back, their glossy black feathers trembling slightly in the cold breeze.

“Ready for the big show?” Magnus asked, pacing leisurely around the circle. His skeletal frame gleamed faintly, his tone dry as always. “Just try not to embarrass us, Bone Caller. I’d hate to see you pass out in front of the orcs.”

John smirked without looking up. “Don’t worry, Magnus. If I do, I’ll make sure my first command as a spirit is to haunt you.”

The crowd chuckled, their tension easing slightly. Freya leaned against a nearby post, her axe resting beside her. Though her ribs were tightly bandaged, her sharp gaze remained locked on John. She was here to ensure the ritual went smoothly—or at least, as smoothly as anything involving necromancy could.

John raised his hands, channeling mana into the first pile of bones. A deep hum resonated through the air, the glow from his runes intensifying as the bones began to shift and assemble. Threads of necrotic energy wove through the pile, binding the pieces together with eerie precision. Slowly, the first golem took shape—a towering construct of jagged bones and glowing runes.

The onlookers gasped as the golem’s hollow eyes ignited with blue light. It let out a low, resonant growl, its massive frame kneeling before John.

“One down,” John muttered, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow. His mana reserves, though significant, had already taken a noticeable hit. “Time for a break.”

Magnus tilted his head, his hollow sockets gleaming with amusement. “A break after one? Come on, Bone Caller, I expected more stamina.”

John shot him a dry look as he settled onto a low bench near the edge of the circle. “I’m not burning out on the first golem just to impress you, Magnus. I’ll need to refill my mana before the next one.”

Freya stepped closer, crossing her arms. “How long will it take?”

“Not long,” John said, closing his eyes and focusing on his breathing. “Mana regen’s decent, but this isn’t something I can rush.”

As John rested, the crowd shifted uneasily. The golem remained still, its glowing eyes scanning the area with mechanical precision. One of the villagers leaned toward Freya, whispering nervously. “Does he always look that drained after just one?”

Freya smirked, her voice low but sharp. “He’s pacing himself. You’d be drained too if you tried to bend a pile of bones into a war machine.”

When John stood again, his mana partially restored, he resumed the ritual. The second pile of bones began to shift under his command, the glowing threads weaving another towering construct. As the second golem rose to join its sibling, John staggered slightly, his hands trembling from the strain.

“Still with us?” Freya asked, her tone lighter than usual.

“Barely,” John replied, sinking back onto the bench. “Two down, eight to go. I’ll be here a while.”

Magnus stepped into the circle, tapping his bony chin as he examined the golems. “You know, they’re impressive, but they could use a little flair. Maybe a fancy hat? A dramatic scarf?”

“They’re not joining your theater troupe, Magnus,” John muttered. “Unless you want to be the star prop.”

The crowd chuckled again, the tension easing as the villagers began to see the humor in Magnus’s antics. Freya rolled her eyes, though her smirk betrayed her amusement.

By the time John finished the fourth golem, his mana reserves were completely drained. He sat heavily on the bench, leaning forward with his hands on his knees. “Alright, I’m officially out for now. Someone bring me water—or better yet, coffee.”

A villager ran to fetch water as the crowd murmured, their awe mixed with unease. The four completed golems stood like sentinels, their jagged frames and glowing runes casting long shadows in the torchlight.

As John rested, a commotion broke out. A drunken villager stumbled into the edge of the ritual circle, his flask sloshing as he tripped over his own feet. “Whoa! Look at those big guys!” he slurred, pointing unsteadily at the golems. “I wanna touch one!”

The crowd gasped, and John shot to his feet, alarm flashing across his face. “Get him out of there!”

Freya was faster. She grabbed the man by the back of his tunic, yanking him out of the circle with a single hand. “You’ll thank me when you don’t wake up as part of the furniture,” she growled, depositing him unceremoniously onto a nearby snowbank.

The villagers burst into laughter, though the tension remained as John refocused his energy. Slowly, his mana reserves recovered, and he resumed the ritual. The fifth, sixth, and seventh golems rose in succession, each one more imposing than the last.

By the time the tenth and final golem was complete, John was visibly pale, his movements sluggish as he lowered his arms. The ritual circle was filled with the towering constructs, their glowing eyes reflecting the flickering torchlight.

Freya stepped forward, offering John a steadying hand. “You did it,” she said quietly, her voice filled with a rare note of admiration.

“Barely,” John replied, his voice hoarse. “Next time, remind me to pace myself better—or get a bigger mana pool.”

Magnus clapped his bony hands together, his tone sardonic as always. “Well, they’re ugly, but effective. Just like their creator.”

“Thanks, Magnus,” John said dryly, leaning heavily on Freya. “I’ll make sure to add that to your job review.”

As the villagers began to disperse, murmuring with a mixture of awe and nervous excitement, John allowed himself a faint smile. The golems stood like silent guardians, a testament to Frostholm’s growing strength—and to the cost of wielding such power.

The central square of Frostholm was alive with activity. Villagers moved between the longhouse and newly built quarters, their faces lit by the flickering glow of torches and fire pits scattered across the snow-covered ground. Laughter and chatter filled the air, but a ripple of tension spread as the gates swung open.

A small group of refugees entered, their cloaks tattered and faces weary from travel. At their head was a tall, broad-shouldered woman with sharp green eyes and a stance that radiated defiance. Her hair was a wild mane of red, and she carried a heavy mace strapped to her back. She paused, scanning the gathered crowd as whispers filled the air.

“That must be her,” someone murmured.

“Another clan looking for shelter,” another added, their tone edged with suspicion.

John stepped forward, flanked by Freya and Magnus. His wings folded neatly against his back, and the faint glow of necromantic runes along his arms caught the firelight. The refugees shifted uneasily at the sight of him, but their leader stood firm.

The woman’s voice cut through the murmurs. “I’m Solveig, daughter of the Ironhand Clan. We’ve heard of your village and what you’ve done. But I need to know—are we walking into safety, or trading one oppressor for another?”

A murmur of surprise rippled through the crowd. Freya stiffened, her hand brushing the axe at her side, but John raised a hand, his expression calm.

“Frostholm isn’t about domination,” John said, his voice carrying across the square. “We’re not here to take from you or anyone else. This is a place where people fight for their survival together—where everyone contributes.”

Solveig narrowed her eyes. “Easy to say. But what does ‘contributing’ mean? Are you asking for loyalty or servitude?”

John stepped closer, meeting her gaze without flinching. “It means doing what you can. If you’re a fighter, you train with us and defend the village. If you’re a builder, you help us grow. If you’re a healer, you save lives. Everyone here has a role, and no one is forced into one they can’t handle.”

The crowd murmured again, this time with approval. Freya stepped forward, her commanding presence cutting through any lingering doubts. “And if you think anyone’s forcing you, Solveig, just look around. These people aren’t here because they have to be—they’re here because they believe in something better.”

Solveig studied them both for a long moment, her sharp gaze flicking from Freya to John and then to the villagers. Finally, she nodded, her posture relaxing slightly. “Alright, Bone Caller. We’ll give this a chance. But I’ll be watching.”

“Good,” John said with a faint smile. “I’d expect nothing less.”

As the refugees were led to the fire pits and offered food and drink, the tension in the square dissipated. Villagers began mingling with the newcomers, sharing stories and offering reassurance. Laughter rippled through the air as the warmth of camaraderie took hold.

Solveig’s acceptance eased the tension in the square, and as the villagers and refugees mingled, the mood began to shift. The fires burned brighter, mugs of ale and mead passed more freely, and laughter replaced the earlier unease. What started as cautious conversation grew into shared stories, hearty toasts, and boisterous camaraderie. As the night deepened, the gathering became livelier, with the boundaries between villager and refugee blurring in the warmth of celebration. That’s when things started to get rowdy.

Nearby, Magnus stood atop a low crate, holding a tankard of ale in one hand and gesturing grandly with the other. “I hereby declare myself King of the Skeletons!” he announced, his voice dripping with mock seriousness. “Bow before your bony overlord!”

Astrid, leaning against a post with her arms crossed, smirked. “King, huh?” With a casual motion, she hefted Magnus off the crate and tossed him into a pile of snow. “Long live the king!”

The crowd erupted into laughter as Magnus pulled himself free, shaking snow from his armor. “Treason!” he declared, earning another round of chuckles.

Across the square, Bjorn found himself the unlikely center of a “best beard” contest among the orcs. The debate grew heated as orcs began braiding their facial hair into increasingly elaborate designs. One particularly ambitious orc attempted to weave small bones into his braid, earning approving nods from the crowd.

A skeleton near the fire, began mimicking Freya’s sharp training commands. It clumsily waved a practice sword, earning groans and laughter as it toppled into a barrel of water. Freya rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a grin. John did suppress his grin, as he was the one silently controlling the skeleton.

Even Egil, usually the epitome of stoicism, was caught singing a bawdy tune. His deep, off-key voice reverberated across the square, prompting villagers to join in with exaggerated harmonies. The sight of the shaman swaying slightly as he sang brought tears of laughter to more than one face.

As the night deepened, the fires burned lower, but the warmth of unity remained. John watched from the edge of the square, his wings folded as he observed villagers and refugees sharing stories and laughter. Solveig approached, her expression softer than before.

“This place is different,” she admitted. “You might just make this work.”

John nodded, his gaze on the crowd. “We will. Together.”

Freya joined him, her axe slung over her shoulder. “You did good, Bone Caller.”

“So did you,” John replied, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

As the square grew quieter, the hope in the air was palpable. For the first time in a long while, Frostholm felt not just like a place to survive, but a place to thrive.

Updated Frostholm Population and Warrior Statistics

* Total Population: 173

* Villagers (non-combatants): 87

* Refugees (new arrivals, non-combatants): 25

* Total Warriors: 56

* Seasoned Warriors: 41

* Includes a mix of villagers, orcs, and Astrid.

* Warriors in Training: 20

* Includes a mix of younger villagers and newly arrived refugees being integrated into Frostholm’s defenses.