Chapter 07
Home and Looming Tradegy
"Home," Finn whispered, his eyes sweeping over the room's modest interior.
It was simple, but it was his. A square space with clean, unadorned walls, its only deviation was a cut-off corner near the entrance that housed a private, on-sweet bathroom. Finn’s lips curved into a grin at the sight. No more were the days of sharing a bathroom with his mother—finally, a place all to his own!
Finn moved past the bathroom, his eyes landing on a single bed adorned with white sheets pressed into the back right corner. Beside it stood a plain wooden dresser, its surface empty and waiting for personal touches. Across the room, a tall wardrobe loomed, its dark wood contrasting with the otherwise bare room.
A small, satisfied sigh escaped Finn’s lips as he nodded to himself. Stepping toward the centre of the room, he sat down on the edge of his new bed, letting the soft mattress sink slightly beneath his weight. Pulling his small suitcase up from where it rested at his feet, he unlatched it and began unpacking.
One by one, he carefully placed his belongings into the drawers and wardrobe. Each item seemed to bring a little warmth to the stark, bare room. A folded stack of neatly pressed clothes went into the dresser, while a small satchel of supplies found a home in the bottom drawer.
Finn paused as his hand brushed over a framed photo tucked inside the suitcase. It was a picture of him and his mom standing in front of their modest home, all smiles on the day he received his acceptance letter. A pang of homesickness tugged at his chest, but he quickly pushed it aside, setting the frame on top of the dresser.
As Finn placed the last of his belongings into the wardrobe, his eyes landed on the small wooden desk by the small window. He walked over and ran his fingers along its smooth surface, noticing the view outside—a sprawling courtyard bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun. The faint murmur of students chatting below reached his ears, and for a moment, he simply stood there, taking it all in.
This was his new beginning. His chance to prove himself. Finn’s lips curved into a determined smile as he sat down at the desk, pulling out a blank notebook. He flipped it open and, with a deep breath, wrote at the top of the first page: Day One.
Finn’s pen hovered over the page for a moment before he added a small underline beneath "Day One." He leaned back in his chair, gazing out the window. The courtyard had grown quieter as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows that stretched across the cobblestone paths.
A faint breeze stirred the curtains, bringing with it the distant sound of laughter. Finn allowed himself a small, contented yet complicated smile.
Finn looked up toward the ceiling, thinking of the past, the excitement of a fresh start—of the chance to build something all his own. He didn’t realize it yet, but the weight of responsibility, the fear of failure, and the looming challenges would soon become the defining parts of his journey.
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The same sun that was falling in a distant place climbed higher, setting the sky ablaze with fiery streaks of orange and red. Lark squinted against the growing light, his grip tightening around the hilt of his blade. The eerie stillness that had blanketed the Greyroar Mountains moments ago was gone, replaced by a deep, resonant thrumming. It seemed to rise from the earth itself, pulsing through his boots and rattling his bones.
It was awake.
“Fuck,” Lark muttered, his gaze snapping to the jagged peak shrouded in swirling, frost-laden mist. A low, guttural growl rumbled through the air, so deep it reverberated in his chest. The sound sent an icy shiver racing down his spine, every nerve alight with dread. He cursed the sunrise, cursed the mountains, cursed the mist and the beasts it concealed—and, above all, cursed their miserable luck.
The master of the Greyroar Mountains had begun its day.
Lark turned back toward the group. Their faces mirrored his own unease, a collective portrait of silent terror. Rudd, standing slightly ahead, wore a look caught between determination and despair. His brow furrowed deeply, his lips pressed into a grim line, as though weighing their chances. But the faint tremor in his stance betrayed the truth—he was just as terrified as the rest of them.
Lark opened his mouth to ask Rudd for guidance but stopped. The words stuck in his throat, and he already knew what their leader would say. No plan. No guarantees. Nothing Lark wanted to hear.
He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to think.
What do I know about Greyroar? The elders back home spoke of the beast—how it didn’t take kindly to trespassers. There were tales of people making it across safely, sure… but they were experts. Professionals.
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His thoughts faltered as his eyes swept over the group—exhausted, battered, barely standing.
“Not almost-dead civilians,” he whispered bitterly, finishing the thought aloud.
Another growl echoed through the mountains, louder this time, shaking the ground beneath them. Lark’s heart raced as he clenched his jaw, forcing his breathing to steady. If they were going to survive, they couldn’t afford to stand here waiting for orders or miracles.
“Think, Lark,” he hissed under his breath. “There’s gotta be a way out of this.”
Behind him, the air trembled again, the sheer power of it reverberating through his bones.
A horrifying thought struck him then, sharp and cold.
We can’t. Or, at least... they can’t.
His eyes narrowed as they scanned the ragtag group, a grim realization settling in. Their odds of survival were near zero. But alone—or with Rudd and a handful of the strongest among them—his chances improved significantly.
The thought twisted in his gut, making him sick.
How could he even think such a thing? Was he really considering leaving them behind?
Abandoning them to die? Running like a coward?
But this wasn’t about courage. It was about survival, wasn't it?
Lark weighed the odds. They were cruel.
Lark gritted his teeth. He remembered the day the group had set off. It had been a day of hope, when they’d learned of the kingdom to the east, Rifeton, and how the mist hadn't yet reached it. It had been like a beacon—an impossible dream that fueled their march forward.
Lark had vowed to himself, to the gods, that he would make sure they reached it alive. But that was months ago. That was when they weren’t at death’s door. When they still had hope.
Lark wiped the sweat from his brow, the cold air stinging his skin. There was a time when he dreamed of freedom too, of starting fresh, but now survival was his only goal. Still, part of him couldn't let go of the thought that the future might hold something better—if he, if they survived this mountain.
Time around him seemed to freeze, and he came to a decision. Was he a fool? Maybe. Was he a coward? No, that's for certain.
“Rudd!” Lark’s voice cut through the air, sharp and urgent. “There’s one way we can survive.”
Rudd snapped out of his reverie, his eyes flicking to Lark with a hint of scepticism. He’d surely weighed the odds himself, possibly even come to the same grim conclusion. But there was something else in his gaze—a glimmer of hope.
“I might sound crazy…” Lark’s voice wavered, his grip tightening on his hilt.
Lark's heart raced his mind a blur of strategies and possibilities. Was he really going to suggest they fight the beast? Was this the only way? He forced the thoughts aside, focusing on the one thing that had kept him alive this far: action.
“We have to kill it. We can kill it.”
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The sun had long fallen behind the tall academy buildings, and the sky was now an inky black, dotted only by the occasional star or the luminous moon. Finn had put his notepad away and now lay back on his new bed, its warmth cocooning him in a sense of calm and exhaustion.
The day had been long, a blur of introductions and expectations, and now, all he wanted was sleep. His body ached for rest, his mind too tired to keep up with the new thoughts racing through it. His eyelids grew heavy, the promise of sleep so close he could almost taste it.
Just as his eyes fluttered shut, as the edges of consciousness began to blur and his breath deepened, a shiver ran through Finn, sharp and cold. A gust of wind, biting and unnatural, cut through him, though his windows were closed. The calm, soothing silence of the room shattered, replaced by something distant, alien.
In the blink of an eye, his surroundings twisted. The warmth of his bed vanished, and Finn stood, alone, on a desolate, frost-bitten path. His breath puffed out in visible bursts, each exhale stinging his lungs. The world felt... wrong. The ground beneath him felt slick with ice like it was trying to drag him into its frozen grip. The air was sharp, carrying a faint, metallic scent—a mix of blood and decay.
As he took an instinctive step forward, his gaze fell to the path. It was stained with crimson. His stomach churned at the sight. Bodies littered the snow, twisted in grotesque poses, limbs splayed at unnatural angles. A visceral, suffocating weight pressed on his chest. He couldn’t look away. Blood pooled, seeping into the ice like a poison. His hands trembled.
Then, he noticed the sword. His fingers were wrapped around it, tight, though it felt unfamiliar. It was rusted, hand heavy, with a smudge of blood that had already begun to congeal at the edge of the blade. Finn didn’t remember taking it. He couldn’t remember why it was in his hands.
A low whimper cut through the silence. His heart hammered in his chest as he scanned the scene, searching. The sound stopped, replaced by an eerie, ominous stillness. That was when the growl came.
A rumble, deep and guttural. It vibrated through the ground, rattling his bones. Finn’s breath caught in his throat. He wasn’t alone. Something was out there. Something... massive. His eyes locked on the mist ahead, watching as it thickened, swirling. Then, something emerged—dark, colossal, its shape only vaguely discernible in the fog. Red eyes, glowing like embers, locked onto him, searing through the haze.
The roar that followed was deafening. It tore through the air like thunder, shaking the very earth beneath him. Finn could do nothing but stare, frozen, as terror crashed over him like a wave.
Suddenly, his body burned with unfamiliar power. His muscles tensed, and a surge of energy flooded through him—wild, untamed, and all-consuming. But before he could process it, the vision shattered, distorting like a broken reflection. The world spun, the air grew still, and—
With a gasp, Finn shot upright in bed, drenched in sweat, his pulse racing as though he had run for miles. His breath came in quick, shallow bursts, but the room around him remained still—quiet. He looked down at his hands, trembling, empty of any weapon.
No blood. No cold.
But the feeling lingered, creeping into his bones as if something from that vision still clung to him. A chill ran down his spine, and he squeezed his eyes shut. What... was that?