CHAPTER 9: THE LINE IN THE SNOW
The Frostholm town square buzzed with a tense energy, the usual tranquility of the snow-covered village replaced by a storm of preparation. Villagers hauled timber and stone to reinforce barricades, blacksmiths hammered out weapons with grim determination, and warriors honed their blades under Freya’s sharp eye. The cold air rang with the clatter of steel, the thud of hammers, and the hum of urgency.
John stood at the raised platform in the center of the square, his wings partially unfurled, casting long shadows in the flickering torchlight. Beside him stood Freya, her axe resting against her shoulder, and Egil, the village shaman, leaning on his intricately carved staff. Astrid and Solveig lingered at the edge of the gathering crowd, their sharp gazes scanning the sea of faces for signs of hesitation.
As the murmurs of the crowd settled into an expectant hush, John stepped forward, his glowing runes faintly illuminating his determined expression. He raised his voice, letting it carry over the gathered villagers, warriors, and apprentices.
“Frostholm,” he began, his tone steady but resolute. “The enemy believes we are weak. That we’re just a village on the edge of nowhere, waiting to be crushed. But we know better. We’ve built something here—something worth fighting for. And when they come, they won’t find victims. They’ll find defenders.”
Freya stepped up beside him, her voice sharp and commanding. “They’ll find warriors. Farmers, smiths, refugees—it doesn’t matter what we were. Today, we’re all fighters. If you’ve got hands, you’ll use them. Whether to wield a weapon, fortify walls, or heal the wounded. No one sits idle.”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd, hesitant at first but growing stronger. Freya’s piercing gaze swept over the people. “Training begins immediately. Every able-bodied person will be taught to fight, to defend their home, their family. This isn’t just John’s fight or mine. It’s ours.”
John nodded, his voice carrying a quieter but equally potent conviction. “And it’s not just flesh and blood that stands with us. Look around.” He gestured toward the skeletal sentinels stationed throughout the square, their soulfire eyes glowing faintly. Nearby, Bone Golems loomed like silent guardians, their jagged frames bristling with necrotic energy.
With a wave of his hand, John activated one of the constructs. A skeletal warrior stepped forward, its movements smooth and purposeful. “These are more than bones,” John said. “They’re extensions of our will. Reinforcements that never tire, never falter. With them, we turn the tide. And today, I’ll show you how.”
John extended his hand, channeling a pulse of energy into the skeleton. The runes on his arms flared brightly as the construct’s bones thickened, its soulfire eyes blazing with renewed intensity. The crowd watched in awe as the enhanced skeleton moved with increased precision, its spear striking a nearby target dummy with unerring accuracy.
Freya smirked. “See that? That’s what happens when we combine strength and strategy. Together, we’re unstoppable.”
Egil stepped forward, raising his staff high. The runes carved into its surface began to glow, casting ethereal light over the crowd. His voice, deep and resonant, carried a weight that silenced even the whispers. “Frostholm’s strength is not just in its warriors or its magic. It’s in its unity. Today, we call upon the spirits of our ancestors—those who built this place, who defended it before us. Let their courage fill your hearts. Let their wisdom guide your hands.”
The shaman began a low chant, and the villagers joined in, their voices rising and falling in rhythm. A faint, shimmering aura spread across the square, touching every person present. The tension in the air shifted, replaced by a palpable sense of determination.
Freya stepped forward again, her voice ringing out like a battle cry. “We are Frostholm! We are the Ebonfrost Clan! And when they come, we will show them what that means!”
The crowd erupted into cheers, their fear tempered by resolve. John stepped back, his gaze meeting Freya’s. Her expression was fierce, her confidence unshakable.
“Think they’re ready?” she asked, her tone laced with a faint smirk.
“They will be,” John replied, his voice steady. “Because they have to be.”
As the crowd dispersed to begin their preparations, John glanced at the skeletal forces moving among them, his mind already turning toward the battles ahead. Frostholm was more than readying for war—it was forging its legacy.
The walls of Frostholm loomed high and imposing, a fortress of stone and bone fused with necromantic ingenuity. Jagged bone spines jutted from the upper edges, their menacing angles designed to deter scaling. The stone was reinforced with patches of frost-hardened mortar, its cold sheen glinting in the pale sunlight. Along the top, skeletons and human archers patrolled in eerie unison, their shadows stretching long over the snow-covered ground.
John stood atop the northern wall, his wings partially spread for balance against the stiff winter breeze. Below, the village bustled with activity, the sound of hammering and shouted instructions blending into a symphony of preparation. Warriors trained in hastily erected yards, their spears clashing with the skeletal constructs acting as sparring partners. Freya’s sharp commands echoed from the village square, keeping everyone on edge and focused.
Astrid joined John at the parapet, her sword resting against her shoulder as she gazed out over the frozen expanse beyond the wall. “We’ve bought ourselves time with these defenses,” she said, her voice low but thoughtful. “But time won’t matter if they bring siege engines that can level this place.”
“They will,” John replied, his tone grim but resolute. “That’s why we’re working on countermeasures.”
From below, the faint glow of the Mage Tower caught his eye. The apprentices were hard at work inside, their silhouettes visible through the tower’s crystalline upper windows. Magical energy flickered faintly in the air, a constant reminder of the power being honed within.
John turned to Astrid. “What’s the report on the scouts?”
She adjusted the strap of her sword, her expression tightening. “Solveig’s team tracked their main force. They’re about three days out, moving slower than expected—probably because of the terrain and their siege equipment. But they’re thorough. They’ve sent out advance parties to probe for weaknesses.”
“Did they find any?”
Astrid smirked. “Not yet. Solveig left them a few surprises in the forest. Let’s just say they won’t be scouting much longer.”
John nodded, his mind already working through the information. “Good. We need to keep them guessing. If we can disrupt their supply lines, it’ll force them to stretch themselves thinner.”
“Speaking of disruption,” Astrid said, her smirk turning into a grin. “I’ve got a team ready to raid one of their forward camps tonight. Hit them hard, grab some supplies, maybe a few prisoners if we’re lucky.”
“Do it,” John said without hesitation. “But be careful. If Malrik’s involved, even a forward camp might be more heavily guarded than we expect.”
Astrid gave him a mock salute. “Careful is my middle name.”
Below, near the main gates, Freya was overseeing the final placement of barricades and traps. Rows of sharpened stakes lined the approach to the gates, hidden beneath layers of snow. Behind them, large cauldrons of heated oil and pitch were being prepared, their acrid scent wafting up toward the wall.
John descended to join her, his boots crunching in the snow as he landed lightly beside her. Freya barely glanced at him, her focus on a group of warriors struggling to position a massive log onto a pivot mechanism.
“That’s not a battering ram,” Freya barked, striding toward them. “It’s a trap trigger. If you handle it like that in a fight, you’ll jam the whole mechanism and get us all killed.”
The warriors stiffened, redoubling their efforts under her sharp gaze. Satisfied, Freya turned to John, her expression softening slightly. “Walls are holding, traps are set. What’s next on your list?”
John gestured toward the Mage Tower. “I need to check on the apprentices. They’re working on something to counter Varrosk’s enchanted warships and siege engines.”
Freya arched a brow. “And if they can’t figure it out in time?”
John’s expression hardened. “Then we’ll improvise.”
The Mage Tower was alive with activity when John entered. The central chamber thrummed with energy as the apprentices moved between workstations piled with glowing crystals, enchanted tools, and ancient tomes. The air smelled of burning incense and ozone, the byproduct of constant spellwork.
A young elf apprentice, his hands glowing faintly green, hurried over to John. “Bone Caller,” he said, his voice steady despite the chaos around him. “We’ve made progress on the counter-siege wards. The runes should amplify the durability of the walls and deflect some of the siege weaponry’s force.”
“And the enchanted warships?” John asked, his tone brisk.
The elf hesitated. “That’s... proving more difficult. We can disrupt their runes temporarily, but maintaining the disruption in battle will require significant resources.”
John nodded, his expression unreadable. “Keep at it. Focus on what we can do, not what we can’t.”
As the apprentice returned to his work, John caught sight of Solveig entering the tower. Her armor was dusted with snow, and her usually composed expression was edged with tension.
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“They’re adapting,” Solveig said without preamble. “Their advance scouts were better prepared than I expected. We got them, but they were carrying arcane tools—scrying stones, detection charms. Someone’s keeping close tabs on us.”
“Malrik,” John said, his voice cold.
Solveig nodded. “Most likely. He’s probing our defenses, looking for weak spots. But he’s not going to find any.”
John exhaled slowly, his mind racing. “Then we keep pushing. Every trap, every ward, every plan—we perfect them. If he’s watching, we make sure he sees a fortress he can’t crack.”
Freya’s voice rang out from the doorway, her tone sharp but laced with determination. “And when he does try, we’ll make sure it’s the last mistake he ever makes.”
The three of them exchanged resolute nods. Frostholm wasn’t just readying for a battle—it was preparing to withstand a storm.
The cold wind stung John’s face as he stood atop the highest tower of Frostholm’s newly fortified walls, his gaze fixed on the darkened horizon. From this vantage point, he could see the faint flicker of Varrosk’s campfires in the distance, their glow like ominous beacons against the snow-draped forest. Somewhere out there, siege engines—massive, rune-encrusted machines of destruction—were being prepared to reduce Frostholm to rubble.
The thought churned in his mind, a gnawing unease settling in his chest. Even with their preparations, those engines posed a dire threat. They had to be stopped.
Freya’s voice carried up from below, sharp and commanding as she directed the warriors reinforcing the gates. Solveig was overseeing her guerrilla team, preparing to disrupt enemy supply lines. And the Mage Tower hummed with activity as the apprentices worked tirelessly on their wards. Everyone was doing their part—but John knew there was more he could do.
His wings rustled as he stepped back from the edge of the tower, his glowing runes flaring faintly. The idea took hold like a spark catching dry tinder. He didn’t have to wait for the engines to reach their walls. He could take the fight to them—right now.
He descended swiftly, his boots crunching against the snow as he sought out Freya. She was near the main gate, her axe slung across her back as she directed a group of orc warriors hauling barrels of pitch.
“Freya,” John called, his voice cutting through the din.
She turned, her sharp gaze narrowing as she caught sight of his expression. “What now, Bone Caller?”
“I’m going after their siege engines,” John said, his tone firm.
Freya blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “Alone?”
“From the sky,” John explained, spreading his wings slightly. “They won’t see me coming, and I can hit them before they’re fully operational. It’s a risk, but if it works, we’ll buy ourselves time.”
Freya’s jaw tightened. “That’s insane. If they have mages out there—or archers—you’ll be a target.”
“I’ll be quick,” John said, his eyes steady. “This is a chance to even the odds, Freya. I can’t ignore it.”
She stared at him for a long moment, her grip tightening on her axe. Finally, she exhaled sharply, her expression hardening. “Fine. But if you don’t come back, I’ll kill you myself.”
John smirked, his wings unfurling fully. “Noted.”
With a powerful leap, he launched into the air, the icy wind rushing past him as he climbed higher and higher. Below, Frostholm’s walls shrank into the distance, its lights a beacon of hope against the encroaching darkness.
The flight was grueling, the freezing air biting through his cloak as he glided silently above the treetops. The faint glow of Varrosk’s campfires grew brighter, their positions revealing the outlines of the siege engines: massive constructs of wood, metal, and glowing crimson runes. John’s breath hitched as he counted them—at least six, spaced out in a loose formation, their operators moving methodically in preparation.
He circled once, scanning for the best angle of attack. His glowing runes flared brighter as he readied his spells, the hum of necromantic energy coursing through him.
“Time to make an impression,” he muttered, diving toward the first engine.
With a sharp motion, he unleashed Shadowflame Barrage, streaks of dark fire arcing from his hands toward the massive construct. The projectiles struck true, exploding against the engine’s base with a deafening roar. Wood splintered, metal warped, and the siege engine collapsed in on itself, sending its operators scattering.
The enemy camp erupted into chaos. Shouts rang out as soldiers scrambled to identify the source of the attack. John didn’t wait for them to recover. He veered toward the second engine, this time using Rune Breaker to unravel its protective enchantments. Crimson light flickered and died as the runes destabilized, leaving the machine vulnerable. A follow-up volley of Soulfire Cascade obliterated it, leaving a smoking crater where it once stood.
But the element of surprise didn’t last. Arrows whistled through the air, forcing John to bank sharply. A magical projectile surged toward him, crackling with crimson energy. He narrowly dodged, the heat of the blast searing the edges of his wings.
“Figures they’d have mages,” he muttered, gritting his teeth.
His third target loomed ahead, its crew frantically cranking its mechanisms to prepare for a shot. John dove low, his spear in hand, and released a final Shadowflame Barrage. The engine erupted in flames, its operators thrown back by the force of the blast.
Breathing heavily, John climbed back into the sky, arrows still trailing him as the camp mobilized. He’d taken out three of their engines, but the effort had drained him. His mana reserves were dangerously low, and his wings ached from the cold and exertion.
“That’ll have to do,” he said to himself, turning back toward Frostholm.
[Experience Earned]
Siege Engine #1 (Shadowflame Barrage): +1,000 EXP
Destroyed Siege Engine #2 (Rune Breaker + Soulfire Cascade): +1,000 EXP
Destroyed Siege Engine #3 (Shadowflame Barrage + Direct Attack): +1,000 EXP
Enemy Operators Eliminated (Total: 8): +1,200 EXP (150 per kill)
When John landed within the village’s walls, his wings folded tightly behind him, the gathered crowd erupted into cheers. Freya pushed through the throng, her expression a mix of exasperation and relief.
“You’re insane,” she said, her tone sharp but tinged with admiration.
“Maybe,” John replied, his grin faint but genuine. “But it worked.”
Freya rolled her eyes but clapped him on the shoulder. “Good. Now get some rest. You’ll need it for what’s coming next.”
As John made his way back to the Mage Tower, exhaustion tugging at his limbs, he allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. The enemy would still come, but tonight, they’d feel the weight of Frostholm’s defiance.
The soft glow of the runic lamps in John’s apartment cast flickering shadows on the walls, the quiet hum of Frostholm’s distant activity muffled by thick stone walls. John sat at his desk, his wings folded tightly behind him, as a familiar translucent prompt appeared before him.
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[Level Up!]
Current Level: 18 → 19
Skill Points Earned: 3
Attribute Points Earned: 2
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John exhaled, leaning back in his chair as the rush of energy settled into his body. He opened his character sheet, his eyes lingering on the attributes. He’d been focusing on agility and strength for good reason. The coming battle would test him physically as much as magically.
With a decisive nod, he allocated the points:
* Strength: 6 → 7
* Dexterity: 9 → 10
He felt the change immediately, his muscles coiling with newfound strength and his reflexes sharper than before. His wings flexed instinctively, their movements smoother and faster. “If Malrik shows up again,” John muttered, “I’ll be ready.”
The skills menu opened next, revealing options for his earned skill points. Several abilities caught his eye, each promising strategic advantages.
1. VEIL OF SHADOWS
DESCRIPTION: SHROUDS AN AREA IN NECROTIC MIST, OBSCURING VISION FOR ENEMIES WHILE ENHANCING STEALTH AND AGILITY FOR ALLIES. UNDEAD WITHIN GAIN MINOR REGENERATION.
MANA COST: 50
2. NIGHTBORN SIGHT
Description: Grants John enhanced vision in total darkness, allowing him to see clearly through shadows, mist, or magical obscurity.
Mana Cost: 10 (Passive Activation)
3. SPECTRAL CLOAK
Description: Wraps John in an aura of shifting shadows, camouflaging him from enemies and reducing the chance of detection when moving or hiding.
Mana Cost: 35
John closed the interface after selecting these three. “These are exactly what I need to stay versatile” he murmured, standing and donning his cloak.
The forest outside Frostholm was quiet, the moonlight filtering through skeletal branches and painting the snow in silvery patches. John walked slowly, his boots crunching softly against the frozen ground. He stopped by a familiar clearing, the brook nearby whispering softly as it wove through the trees.
The air here felt lighter, unburdened by the weight of the village’s preparations. John sat on a smooth boulder, his spear resting across his lap, and let his thoughts wander. Memories of the battles, the losses, and the victories replayed in his mind, tempered by the ever-present worry of what lay ahead.
The sound of footsteps broke his reverie. He turned to see Freya stepping into the clearing, her axe slung over her shoulder. She gave him a faint smirk. “You always come out here when you’re brooding.”
“Not brooding,” John replied, grinning faintly. “Strategizing.”
“Sure.” Freya set her axe against a nearby tree and joined him, sitting on a log opposite the brook. The firelight from Frostholm barely reached this far, leaving them under the soft glow of the moon.
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment before Freya spoke, her voice softer than usual. “We’ve come a long way, haven’t we? Frostholm was barely holding together when you arrived. Now…” She gestured toward the village, her gaze thoughtful. “It feels like something worth fighting for.”
John nodded, his expression matching hers. “It’s more than that. It’s worth everything. The people here—they’ve built something out of nothing. All I did was give them a little help.”
Freya snorted. “Don’t downplay it, Bone Caller. You gave them hope. That’s more than just ‘a little help.’”
He smiled, his wings shifting slightly as he met her gaze. “Maybe. But I couldn’t have done it without you.”
Freya looked away briefly, her fingers brushing the haft of her axe. “You’ll be fine tomorrow,” she said, her tone steady. “I know it. And so does everyone else.”
John tilted his head, studying her. “That sounds suspiciously like faith.”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” she muttered, though the corner of her mouth lifted in a faint smirk. “You’re stubborn, reckless, and far too good at making things worse before they get better. But you’re exactly who we need.”
John chuckled. “High praise. I’ll take it.”
Freya leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees as she fixed him with a rare, vulnerable look. “Just… don’t get yourself killed out there. This place needs you, John.” She hesitated, then added more quietly, “I need you.”
The weight of her words settled between them, their significance undeniable. John’s usual quips deserted him, replaced by a rare moment of sincerity. “I’m not going anywhere, Freya. Whatever comes tomorrow, we’ll face it together.”
Freya’s expression softened, and for a moment, the hardened warrior looked almost at peace. She stood, grabbing her axe and slinging it over her shoulder. “Good. Now get some rest, Bone Caller. We’ll need you sharp for the morning.”
John watched her leave, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. As the forest grew silent again, he glanced at his reflection in the brook. Whatever tomorrow brought, he was ready to face it—with Freya and the people of Frostholm standing beside him.