CHAPTER 8: FROSTHOLM’S TRANSFORMATION
The Frostholm docks bustled with activity as dawn’s pale light stretched across the snow-dappled village. The air was crisp and filled with the sounds of hammering, the creak of wood, and the murmur of voices. Villagers, orcs, and warriors worked side by side, unloading crates of supplies, weapons, and tools from the ships docked along the icy river.
John stood near the central dock, his wings folded neatly against his back as he oversaw the flurry of activity. His sharp gaze swept over the scene, ensuring everything was proceeding efficiently. The enchanted warship loomed nearby, its runes faintly glowing even in the daylight, drawing curious stares from the villagers as they moved supplies around it.
Freya joined him, her axe resting on her shoulder. Despite the fatigue etched into her features, her movements were purposeful. She gestured toward a group of blacksmiths and engineers gathering around the warship. “They’re ready to start dismantling the ship for study. We’ll need to understand those runes before we can use them.”
John nodded, his voice calm but firm. “Good. The more we know, the better we can prepare. That ship could be the key to turning the tide in future battles.”
As they spoke, a group of villagers paused to cheer, their voices cutting through the hum of work. “To Frostholm!” one of them shouted, raising a fist.
Freya smirked, giving them a nod. “Let them celebrate. They’ve earned it.”
The mood, however, was tempered by the visible losses among the returning warriors. Groups of villagers stood silently at the edges of the docks, their expressions heavy as they watched the wounded being carried toward the shaman’s quarters. A pile of broken shields and bloodstained weapons served as a stark reminder of the cost of their victory.
Egil, the village shaman, approached John and Freya, his staff clicking against the ground. “The people are looking to you both for guidance,” he said, his tone low but steady. “They see the victories, but they also see the price we pay. Unity will be more important than ever.”
Freya’s grip on her axe tightened. “Then we’ll give them something to unite around. This isn’t just a village anymore—it’s a stronghold. A home worth fighting for.”
John’s gaze shifted to the enchanted warship, his mind already turning toward its potential. “That starts with making this place stronger. I’ve been studying The Book of Forgotten Tides: Volume 2. I can turn that ship into something more—a skeletal hybrid that’s not just a weapon but a symbol.”
Egil arched a brow. “A symbol can be powerful, but only if it inspires rather than frightens.”
Freya snorted. “Anyone who’s frightened of that ship isn’t ready to stand with us.”
John’s voice softened. “We’ll find the balance. People need to see what we’re capable of, but they also need to know we’re building this for them.”
Egil nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Then I’ll do my part to keep their spirits steady. You focus on what comes next.”
As Egil departed, John turned back to Freya. “The dock expansion starts today. If we’re going to support a fleet, we’ll need more space—and reinforcements.”
Freya scanned the busy scene, her sharp eyes lingering on the enchanted warship. “We’ll get it done. This isn’t the end of our fight—it’s just the beginning.”
Their conversation was interrupted by Astrid, who approached with her usual confident stride. “The blacksmiths are already arguing over who gets to study the runes first,” she said with a smirk. “I told them to flip a coin before they start swinging hammers at each other.”
Freya chuckled. “Let them fight. Maybe they’ll come up with something useful while they’re at it.”
John’s wings shifted slightly as he turned toward the heart of the village. “We’ll need more than hammers and arguments. This village is changing, Freya. Let’s make sure it changes for the better.”
Freya’s expression hardened, her determination evident. “It will. We’ll make it stronger, no matter what it takes.”
As the first beams for the expanded dock were hauled into place and the dismantling of the enchanted warship began, a sense of purpose settled over Frostholm. The scars of battle were fresh, but so was the resolve to transform those scars into strength. For John and Freya, the path forward was clear: Frostholm would rise, not as a village on the edge of survival, but as a force to be reckoned with.
The Frostholm docks gleamed under the flickering light of torches and runes etched into the new fortified piers. The recently expanded docks, framed by sturdy timber and reinforced with iron bands, were now outfitted to handle not just longships but larger vessels like the captured enchanted warship. Guard towers, bristling with watchful skeletons and human archers, flanked the docks, their heights offering a clear view of the river and surrounding forests.
The warship rested in the center of the harbor, its hull casting a massive shadow over the workers and villagers bustling about. Its runes pulsed faintly, as though aware of the attention it drew. Torches and lanterns surrounded the ship, their flickering flames competing with the eerie glow of necromantic energy that seemed to hum in anticipation.
John stood at the base of the gangplank, his wings partially spread and his glowing runes casting pale light across the gathered crowd. He took a deep breath, centering himself. This ritual would demand precision and power, but it was essential for Frostholm’s future.
Freya stepped up beside him, her axe resting against her shoulder. “Are you sure about this?” she asked, her sharp gaze flicking to the towering ship.
John smirked. “Not entirely, but when has that ever stopped me?”
She snorted, her grin faint but present. “Just don’t sink the dock.”
The gathered crowd—villagers, warriors, and orcs—fell silent as John stepped forward. He raised his arms, the runes along his skin flaring brighter as he began to chant. The air grew heavy, charged with the hum of necromantic energy. The torches lining the docks flared brighter, their flames dancing in time with the rhythm of his words.
The warship’s runes responded, glowing more intensely as the necromantic energy took hold. Bones began to rise from crates stacked nearby, the remains of past battles and the spoils of the raid. They floated through the air like leaves on an unseen breeze, converging on the ship’s hull. The wood groaned as the skeletal reinforcements fused with it, ribs of bone intertwining with the wooden frame.
The crowd gasped as the transformation unfolded. The ship’s prow reshaped itself into a menacing dragon-like figurehead, its hollow eye sockets glowing with soulfire. Skeletal oars extended from its sides, and jagged spines emerged along the hull, giving it the appearance of a beast ready to strike. Runes etched themselves into the new bone and wood hybrid, pulsing in a pattern that resembled a heartbeat.
John’s voice grew louder, his chant resonating across the docks. With a final surge of energy, he thrust his hands forward, and a wave of necrotic power engulfed the ship. When the light faded, the warship stood transformed—a dark, skeletal hybrid that radiated menace and power.
The crowd erupted into murmurs, their awe tempered by unease. Freya stepped forward, her gaze fixed on the ship. “It’s... something,” she said, her tone laced with grudging admiration.
Solveig joined her, her mace resting casually across her shoulder. “Something that will make anyone think twice about challenging us. Imagine seeing that bearing down on your fleet in the dead of night.”
Freya nodded, her smirk returning. “Psychological warfare. I like it.”
John turned to face the crowd, his breathing steady but his body visibly drained. “This ship isn’t just a weapon,” he said, his voice carrying over the murmurs. “It’s a promise. To our enemies, it’s a warning. To us, it’s a reminder of what we can achieve when we work together.”
The villagers and warriors cheered, their spirits lifted by the sight of their leader’s power and the potential of their growing fleet.
Solveig glanced at John, her expression more serious. “You’re pushing yourself hard, Bone Caller. Be careful not to burn out before the real fight begins.”
John gave her a faint smile. “I’ll be fine. Besides, we’ve got a lot more to build before we’re done.”
As the crowd began to disperse, returning to their tasks with renewed vigor, Freya and Solveig lingered by the docks. They watched as the skeletal warship floated ominously, its glowing runes reflecting off the dark water.
“We’re turning this place into something formidable,” Solveig said, her voice low.
Freya nodded. “Formidable isn’t enough. We need to be unstoppable.”
With that, they turned and walked back toward the village, leaving John alone by the docks. He stared at the warship for a moment longer, his mind already turning to the battles ahead. The transformation was complete, but the journey was far from over. Frostholm’s strength was growing, but so were the challenges waiting on the horizon.
The Command Headquarters buzzed with quiet intensity, its blue-flamed sconces casting steady light over the room. At the center, the interactive map table glowed faintly, its intricate runes projecting a three-dimensional map of Frostholm and the surrounding territories. John stood at the edge of the table, his wings folded neatly behind him. Freya, Astrid, and Solveig were positioned around the table, their expressions ranging from curious to contemplative.
John tapped the edge of the table, and the projection shifted to display the village's resources, defenses, and recent expansions. "We’ve done well so far, but with the resources and settlement points we’ve gained, it’s time to think about the next step," he began, his voice steady.
Freya leaned forward, her axe resting against her chair. “Agreed. The docks are shaping up, and the warship’s transformation is already a game-changer. But we’re still vulnerable. If Varrosk retaliates, we’ll need more than just numbers to hold them off.”
Solveig nodded, her green eyes sharp. “Magic. We’ve been leaning hard on John for anything arcane. That won’t cut it in the long term.”
Astrid smirked, crossing her arms. “And I’m guessing you’ve already thought of a solution, Bone Caller?”
John gestured toward a glowing icon on the map. "The Mage Tower," he said. "It’s an investment, but it would give us a foundation for magical research and training. We could start mentoring villagers in necromancy or other disciplines. It’s time we stop relying on me alone."
Freya arched a brow. “You’re sure about this? We could also use those points for defenses—reinforce the walls, add more watchtowers.”
Astrid leaned back, her smirk fading. “Walls are great, but if Varrosk comes at us with more enchanted warships—or worse, mages of their own—we’ll need magic to counter them.”
Solveig crossed her arms, her tone pragmatic. “The Mage Tower won’t just help in battle. It’ll also give the villagers more options, more reasons to stay and fight for Frostholm.”
John looked at Freya, his gaze steady. “You’ve seen how much we’ve grown. But if I fall—or if we face something even I can’t handle—what happens then? The Mage Tower isn’t just about today. It’s about the future.”
Freya exhaled slowly, her fingers drumming against the table. “Alright. But only if we make it clear to everyone that this is a tool for unity, not division. People are still uneasy about necromancy.”
Solveig grinned. “That’s where you come in, Axe Bearer. You’ve got the charm.”
Freya shot her a dry look but nodded. “Fine. Mage Tower it is.”
John reached out and tapped the glowing icon, confirming the allocation. The table pulsed as the system acknowledged the decision.
[Settlement Points Spent: 3]
[Mage Tower Unlocked]
Construction Progress: 0%
Astrid leaned over to inspect the plans that appeared. The Mage Tower’s design was simple but elegant—a spiraling structure made of stone and reinforced with necromantic runes, its peak crowned with a glowing beacon. “Not bad,” she said. “Think it’ll come with a library?”
“It will,” John replied. “And a space for advanced rituals, training grounds for apprentices, and storage for magical artifacts.”
Freya stood, her axe resting on her shoulder. “Good. Now let’s make sure it gets built before Varrosk decides to pay us another visit.”
As the group began discussing the integration of the tower into the village’s infrastructure, Freya mentioned another piece of news. “By the way, more refugees have been arriving. Small groups, but consistent. We’re up to nearly two hundred people now.”
Solveig’s expression darkened slightly. “Refugees are good for numbers, but they’re also mouths to feed. We’ll need to integrate them quickly.”
Astrid chuckled. “Don’t worry. With the warship and this tower, we’ll have plenty of ways to keep everyone busy.”
John looked around the room, his gaze lingering on each of his advisors. “This is a step forward,” he said quietly. “But it’s only the beginning. Let’s make sure Frostholm becomes a place no one can ignore—and no one can conquer.”
The group dispersed with renewed determination, each heading to oversee their part in the village’s transformation. John lingered at the table for a moment, staring at the glowing projection of the Mage Tower. Its construction would be a symbol of hope, unity, and strength—a beacon for what Frostholm was becoming.
The Mage Tower stood as a new pinnacle of Frostholm’s growing strength. Its dark stone walls were laced with glowing runes, the intricate patterns shifting and pulsing like a living thing. A faint aura of power surrounded the structure, its spire piercing the cold sky and casting a shadow over the surrounding village.
Inside, the air thrummed with latent magic. Shelves lined with ancient tomes and glowing crystals spiraled up the walls, while the central chamber was dominated by an expansive runic circle etched into the polished stone floor. The Class Change Stone rested on a pedestal at the room's center, its crystalline light casting long shadows across the apprentices gathered around it.
John stood near the pedestal, his wings partially spread and his hands clasped behind his back. The five villagers he had chosen as necromancer apprentices—three humans, an orc, and a young elf refugee—watched him with wide eyes, their awe of the tower mingling with anticipation.
“This tower exists because of Frostholm’s collective effort,” John began, his voice carrying easily in the echoing chamber. “It’s more than stone and runes—it’s a place for growth, learning, and preparing to defend what we’ve built. If you’re standing here, it’s because I see potential in you to wield necromancy responsibly.”
He gestured to the Class Change Stone, its light shimmering in hues of blue and green. “This artifact will allow you to take the first step on that path. By touching it, you’ll gain the Necromancer’s Apprentice class. This isn’t a decision to make lightly. Once you accept, you’ll be bound to this path, with all its challenges and responsibilities.”
The orc, broad-shouldered and steady, was the first to step forward. His expression was resolute as he placed a hand on the stone. A ripple of light coursed through him, illuminating his features briefly before fading.
[Class Change Complete: Necromancer’s Apprentice]
The others followed, one by one. Each touch of the stone brought a pulse of light, their tentative expressions transforming into determination as they stepped back.
When the final apprentice—a human woman with sharp, curious eyes—completed her class change, John addressed the group again. “You’re apprentices now. That means mistakes will happen, and that’s part of learning. What matters is how you move forward.”
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He motioned for them to follow him to the runic circle. “Today, we’ll start with control. Necromancy isn’t just about raising skeletons—it’s about precision. The better your control, the less likely you are to create... unintended problems.”
The group took their places around the circle, each standing before a skeletal training dummy. John activated the runes with a flick of his wrist, and the dummies began to animate, their bony limbs creaking as they moved.
“Your task is to channel your energy into these dummies and deactivate them without damaging the runes or the tower. Watch.”
John raised his hand, channeling a faint pulse of necrotic energy. The dummy in front of him froze mid-motion, its bones collapsing neatly into a pile. “Like that. Now, your turn.”
The apprentices hesitated briefly before attempting the task. One by one, they muttered incantations, their hands glowing faintly with necrotic light. The dummies reacted unevenly—some stopped cleanly, while others collapsed in awkward heaps.
John moved among them, offering quiet guidance. “Steady your focus,” he told the elf, whose dummy was twitching erratically. “Your energy is too scattered. Breathe, and direct it where it’s needed.”
The elf nodded and tried again, this time successfully deactivating the dummy. A small smile of satisfaction spread across his face.
The orc, meanwhile, overpowered his spell. Instead of deactivating the dummy, he accidentally imbued it with too much energy. The skeletal figure straightened and began sprinting in circles around the room, its bony arms flailing wildly.
The group froze in shock before bursting into laughter. Even John chuckled as he raised his hand, deactivating the rogue dummy with a swift command. It collapsed into a pile of bones with a clatter.
“Good effort,” John said to the sheepish orc. “But necromancy isn’t about brute force. It’s about finesse. Let’s try again.”
As the session continued, the apprentices began to show real progress. The dummies were deactivated with increasing precision, their earlier nervousness replaced by cautious confidence.
When the training ended, John addressed the group. “You’ve all made a solid start, but remember—this is just the beginning. Necromancy requires patience and dedication. Keep practicing, and you’ll not only strengthen yourselves but also Frostholm.”
As the apprentices dispersed, murmuring excitedly among themselves, John lingered by the runic circle. His gaze swept over the quiet, glowing chamber, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Freya entered the room, her axe resting against her shoulder. She surveyed the scene with a raised brow. “No disasters? I’m impressed.”
“Not entirely,” John replied, his grin widening. “One rogue skeleton caused a minor stampede, but we managed.”
Freya smirked. “Let’s hope they can control their powers before they turn the village into a playground for undead.”
John chuckled. “They’ll get there. They have potential.”
Freya’s expression softened slightly. “And they have you to guide them. That counts for more than you think.”
As Freya left, John stood alone in the glowing chamber, the faint hum of the Mage Tower surrounding him. For the first time, he felt the weight of leadership shifting slightly, shared by those willing to learn and grow alongside him. Frostholm wasn’t just his burden to bear anymore—it was becoming a shared legacy.
The village square of Frostholm had been transformed for the evening. A large fire pit burned brightly at its center, casting flickering light over the gathered crowd. Villagers, warriors, refugees, and apprentices stood shoulder to shoulder, their breath fogging in the crisp night air. Around the square, banners of dark blue and silver fluttered gently in the breeze—decorations hastily assembled to mark the occasion.
Freya stood at the forefront, her axe slung over her back, her sharp features illuminated by the firelight. Her presence commanded attention, and when she raised her hand, the murmurs of the crowd quieted.
“Frostholm,” Freya began, her voice clear and strong, “is no longer just a village. Look around you. We have grown—through blood, loss, and sheer determination. But what we’ve built here isn’t just walls and ships. It’s a home. A sanctuary. And it’s time we recognize what we’ve become.”
She paused, her gaze sweeping over the crowd. “We are a people forged by two forces: life and death. We are farmers, smiths, and warriors. We are healers and necromancers. Some of you came here fleeing war. Others were born here. But now, we’re something more. We’re a clan—a family.”
The villagers stirred, their expressions thoughtful as Freya’s words sank in. She stepped forward, her voice rising with conviction. “And like any clan, we need a name. Something that represents who we are and what we stand for. A name that tells the world we will not be broken.”
A wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd, curiosity and anticipation buzzing in the air. Freya turned toward John, who stood at her side. His wings were tucked neatly behind him, and the glowing runes on his arms pulsed faintly.
“John,” Freya said, her tone softer now but no less resolute. “You’ve given us the strength to survive when the odds were stacked against us. You’ve shown us that life and death can stand side by side. Will you speak to what we’ve become?”
John hesitated briefly, then stepped forward, his voice calm but carrying across the square. “Freya’s right. This isn’t just a village anymore. Every one of you has fought for this place in your own way—whether with a hammer, an axe, or your own two hands. Frostholm is more than a place; it’s a symbol of what happens when we refuse to give up.”
He paused, his gaze steady. “But strength alone won’t define us. What will is how we stand together. As one. We’ll face enemies stronger than us, challenges bigger than we’ve ever known. And we’ll endure—not because of what we have, but because of who we are.”
The crowd was silent, their attention riveted on John. He looked to Freya, nodding slightly. She turned back to the villagers. “So, we choose. Together. What name will we carry forward?”
Suggestions began to bubble up, shouted from various parts of the crowd:
“Shadowforge Clan!” “Winterborn!” “Ebonfrost!”
The last name seemed to resonate, and more voices took it up. “Ebonfrost! Ebonfrost Clan!”
Freya raised a hand, silencing the noise. “Ebonfrost,” she said, testing the name. “It speaks to our resilience, our strength in the harshest conditions. It honors our past while embracing what we’ve become.”
John nodded. “It fits.”
A cheer erupted from the crowd, the villagers stamping their feet and clapping their hands in approval. Freya smiled, the rare expression softening her sharp features. “Then it’s decided. We are the Ebonfrost Clan.”
The cheer grew louder, and someone lit a second fire in celebration. Villagers brought out food and drink, the mood in the square turning jubilant as people toasted the new name. Skeletons, subtly guided by John, awkwardly joined the dancing, earning laughter and groans in equal measure.
Freya leaned toward John, her voice just audible over the noise. “You didn’t say much, but it worked.”
John smirked, his wings shifting slightly. “That’s because you said it all.”
Freya rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a small smile. “You’re learning.”
The night carried on with music, laughter, and a renewed sense of unity. As the firelight flickered and the celebration continued, the Ebonfrost Clan solidified its place—not just in name, but in purpose. Together, they were ready to face whatever came next.
The forest was calm, the towering pines swaying gently in the cool night breeze. Moonlight filtered through the branches, casting a patchwork of silvery light across the ground. John sat on a smooth boulder near a babbling brook, his wings folded tightly behind him. The hum of Frostholm’s activities was distant here, muffled by the dense trees. For the first time in weeks, John allowed himself a moment to simply breathe.
He gazed at his reflection in the brook. His glowing runes pulsed faintly on his arms, casting an eerie light over the water. He flexed his fingers, feeling the latent power coursing through his body—a power that had grown in ways he hadn’t anticipated.
A translucent system prompt appeared before him.
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[Level Up!]
Current Level: 17 → 18
Skill Points Earned: 3
Attribute Points Earned: 2
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John sighed, the familiar surge of energy washing over him. He pulled up his character sheet, studying it with a mixture of curiosity and determination.
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[Character Sheet]
Name: John Harper
Race: Draugr Ascendant
Class: Necromancer – Path of the Deathcaller
Attributes:
Strength: 5 → 6
Dexterity: 8 → 9
Intelligence: 26
Charisma: 10
Mana: 260
Points Available: 0
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John nodded to himself, rationalizing his choices. "If that other necromancer—Malrik Dravok—shows up again, I might need to hold my own in close combat," he muttered. "Strength and agility will help more than raw intellect this time."
He turned to his skill points, scrolling through the available options. Three points felt like a luxury, but the weight of each decision bore down on him.
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[Skills Upgraded]
Tactical Spearplay: Level 0 → Level 1
* Enhanced control and precision with spears, increasing both offensive and defensive capabilities in melee combat.
Minion Cap Expansion: Level 18 → Level 19
* Maximum Minions: 95 → 100
Flight: Level 1 → Level 2
* Improved stamina, speed, and maneuverability in the air.
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John exhaled as the upgrades solidified, his body tingling with renewed strength and agility. Standing, he tested his balance, finding himself lighter on his feet. He gave a small jump, his wings unfurling instinctively. He hovered for a moment before landing, the newfound ease in his movements surprising him.
He chuckled softly, staring down at his reflection once more. “Not bad, Bone Caller. Not bad at all.”
A rustling behind him made him turn, his senses snapping to alert. From the shadows, Freya emerged, her axe resting on her shoulder. She was dressed in her usual rugged armor, but her expression was softer than usual, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.
“Spying on me, Freya?” John asked, his tone light but teasing.
“Hardly,” she replied, stepping closer. “You’re not exactly subtle when you go skulking off into the woods.”
John raised an eyebrow. “Skulking? I’d call it meditating.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Bone Caller,” Freya quipped, leaning her axe against a nearby tree.
John gestured to the brook. “What brings you out here?”
Freya shrugged, her gaze drifting to the rippling water. “Thought you might need company. You’ve been carrying a lot lately—more than most could handle.”
John chuckled softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “And here I thought you came to keep me in line.”
She smirked, crossing her arms. “That, too.”
They stood in companionable silence for a moment, the brook’s gentle babble filling the air. Freya’s voice softened as she broke the quiet. “Do you ever think about how much has changed since you got here? Frostholm, the people…you?”
John nodded slowly. “All the time. It’s…a lot. And sometimes I wonder if I’m doing the right thing, or if I’m just dragging everyone into my mess.”
Freya stepped closer, her sharp gaze meeting his. “You’re not dragging anyone. They follow you because you’ve given them hope, John. They believe in you.”
Her words hung in the air, heavy with sincerity. John shifted awkwardly, the weight of her gaze making him feel both grateful and flustered. “Thanks, Freya. That means…a lot.”
She smirked, her tone teasing again. “Don’t get used to me being nice. It’s exhausting.”
John laughed, the sound breaking the tension. “Noted.”
Freya’s smirk softened into a genuine smile. “For what it’s worth, Bone Caller, I believe in you too. Just…don’t screw it up.”
“I’ll do my best,” John said, grinning. “And if I do screw up, I’m sure you’ll be there to remind me.”
“Damn right,” Freya said, picking up her axe. She started to turn, then hesitated, glancing over her shoulder. “Oh, and one more thing.”
“What’s that?” John asked.
Freya gave him a sly smile. “You look good out here. The forest suits you.”
John blinked, momentarily stunned. “Wait, was that…a compliment?”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” she said, disappearing into the trees with a wave.
John stared after her, a bemused smile spreading across his face. “She’s going to be the death of me,” he muttered, shaking his head.
As the forest grew quiet once more, John turned back to the brook. The challenges ahead were daunting, but for the first time in a long while, he felt ready to face them.
he late afternoon sun hung low over Frostholm, casting long shadows across the snow-covered ground. John sat at a desk in the newly built Mage Tower, poring over a map of the region and cross-referencing it with the intelligence they’d recently captured. The room was silent except for the soft crackle of a nearby enchanted lantern. His wings were tucked tightly behind him, their shadows flickering on the wall as he leaned forward in concentration.
The sound of hurried footsteps broke the calm, and John looked up just as the door to the study swung open. A young villager, his breath fogging in the chill air, stood in the doorway, his face pale and wide-eyed.
“Bone Caller,” the man said, his voice wavering slightly. “A party is approaching the gates. Armed. They’re not flying any friendly banners.”
John rose immediately, his wings rustling with the motion. “How many?” he asked, his tone sharp but calm.
“A dozen, maybe more,” the villager replied. “They’re heavily armored, and there’s... someone leading them. He’s carrying a staff—something about him feels... wrong.”
John’s gaze darkened as he grabbed his spear from where it leaned against the desk. “Alert Freya and Astrid. I’ll head to the gates.”
The villager nodded and bolted back down the corridor. John followed swiftly, his boots echoing against the stone floors. As he stepped outside, the cold air bit at his face, but he barely noticed. His focus was already on the distant figures approaching Frostholm’s gates.
By the time John reached the entrance, Freya and Astrid were already there, joined by Solveig and a contingent of warriors. Freya stood with her axe resting against her shoulder, her expression set in a hard line. Astrid, leaning casually on her sword, glanced at John as he approached. “Looks like we’ve got company.”
“Not the kind that brings gifts, I’m guessing,” John said dryly, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the approaching group.
The figures were closer now, their dark armor gleaming faintly in the winter sun. Crimson banners fluttered in the breeze, and at their head was a tall, imposing figure with an aura of palpable menace. The staff he carried glowed faintly red, and with every step, the snow beneath him seemed to darken, as if scorched by his presence.
“Whoever he is,” Freya muttered, tightening her grip on her axe, “he’s not here to talk about trade agreements.”
“Then we’d better find out what he does want,” John replied, stepping forward. His runes glowed faintly as he braced himself for the confrontation ahead.
The air around Frostholm seemed to freeze as an ominous entourage approached the gates. The sound of crunching snow under heavy boots echoed like a drumbeat of forewarning. Villagers paused their tasks, their breath visible in the crisp afternoon air as they gathered cautiously to watch the unfolding scene.
At the head of the procession walked Malrik Dravok, First Necromancer of Varrosk, his very presence darkening the mood. His obsidian armor gleamed faintly, etched with runes that pulsed with crimson light. A long cloak billowed behind him, its edges embroidered with the sigil of Varrosk—a black tower set against a field of red. In his hand, he carried a staff carved from charred bone, its jagged headpiece glowing like embers in the snow.
Behind him marched a phalanx of soldiers clad in darkened plate, their movements unnervingly synchronized. Crimson banners bearing the sigil of Varrosk snapped in the wind, and the air felt heavy with restrained magic.
At Frostholm’s gates, John stood ready, his wings partially unfurled, and his glowing runes casting faint light in the pale afternoon. Freya stood at his side, her axe resting against her shoulder, her sharp gaze fixed on Malrik. Behind them, Astrid, Solveig, and a group of warriors and skeleton sentinels formed a protective line.
Malrik came to a halt a dozen paces from the gates, planting his staff into the snow with a resonant thud. Crimson energy rippled outward, faint but unsettling, leaving a dull hum in the air. His gaze swept across the gathered villagers with a mixture of disdain and amusement.
“Frostholm,” Malrik said, his voice deep and resonant, carrying the weight of command. “A defiant ember in the shadow of Varrosk’s might. Quaint.”
John met his gaze evenly, his tone calm. “I doubt you came all this way for poetry. What do you want?”
A smirk tugged at Malrik’s lips, his crimson eyes narrowing. “What I want, Bone Caller, is for you to understand the futility of your defiance. You’ve built something remarkable here, but it stands on borrowed time.”
Freya stepped forward, her voice sharp and unwavering. “We’ve faced worse than you, necromancer. Frostholm doesn’t bow.”
Malrik’s smirk deepened as his gaze shifted to her. “Ah, Freya. The infamous Axe Bearer. Your bravado is admirable, though misplaced. Courage will not shield you from what comes.”
He gestured with his staff, and crimson runes along its length flared to life. The air shimmered as a projection materialized, suspended above the staff’s jagged head. The image showed Frostholm’s defenses—its fortified docks, skeletal sentinels, and ships—rendered in ominous crimson light. The projection zoomed out to reveal the surrounding region, highlighting vast forces converging on the village: armored legions, siege engines, and enchanted warships.
“This is what you face,” Malrik intoned, his voice reverberating with magical resonance. “Your walls, your ships, your skeletal guardians—they are impressive for a village. But Varrosk is an empire. Our armies are an avalanche, and Frostholm is a snowdrift waiting to be buried.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd behind John and Freya. Villagers exchanged uneasy glances, their confidence wavering under the weight of Malrik’s display.
John stepped forward, his wings shifting slightly as his voice cut through the tension. “Surrender isn’t an option. Frostholm wasn’t built on submission to tyrants.”
Malrik’s smirk vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating expression. “Defiance, then. How quaint.” He raised his staff, and the crimson projection shifted, highlighting the forces arrayed against them in even greater detail. “This is your last chance to avoid annihilation. Surrender Frostholm, submit to Varrosk, and perhaps you’ll find mercy.”
Freya’s grip on her axe tightened. “We’ll take our chances.”
Malrik tilted his head, studying her with faint amusement. “You mistake my warning for an offer. The choice is already made. Frostholm will fall—it is only a matter of how much blood will be spilled in the process.”
John took another step forward, his glowing runes brightening as he met Malrik’s gaze. “If you’re so certain of your victory, why are you here? Why not unleash your ‘avalanche’ and be done with it?”
A cold, humorless laugh escaped Malrik. “I came to see the so-called Bone Caller for myself. To look into the eyes of the one who dares to challenge an empire. And now that I have, I see only hubris.”
Freya’s voice rang out, clear and defiant. “And we see a coward who hides behind armies.”
The crowd murmured in agreement, their fear beginning to give way to resolve. Malrik’s crimson eyes flashed with irritation, but his smirk returned, colder than before.
“So be it,” Malrik said, his voice a dangerous whisper. “Your defiance will be your epitaph.”
With a sharp gesture, he turned, his soldiers falling into formation behind him. The projection above his staff dissolved into the air, leaving only the echo of his presence as the entourage marched back toward the horizon.
As the gates closed, John turned to the gathered villagers and warriors. His voice was calm but firm. “You heard him. They think they can break us. Let’s prove them wrong.”
Freya rested her hand on his shoulder, her expression fierce. “We’ll make sure they regret ever coming here.”
The tension hung heavy in the air, but as the villagers dispersed, there was a spark of determination in their eyes. Frostholm would stand, no matter the cost.