Aron was preparing for his journey back. He couldn’t wait any longer. Impatience consumed him, a burning need to discover what had happened in his absence. But he knew he would only find the consequences, not the cause. And, despite being convinced that he had left that place behind, his heart told a different story.

His wounds throbbed with every movement, and hunger clenched his stomach like a fist. Becoming a knight didn’t mean he could ignore the limits of a body made of flesh and blood… at least, not yet.

As he lifted his foot to take the first step toward Bitterthorn, the Voice stopped him.

“Where do you think you’re going in this state?” It spoke with a tone of mild irritation, but there was something else, almost a sense of ease. Perhaps the fact that Aron had begun to listen to it was changing it as well.

Aron didn’t respond. His expression was determined, almost stubborn. But the Voice wasn’t foolish, and if it was trying to play a game, it wasn’t one Aron intended to join.

“The Strixwolf,” it pressed, insistent. “It has something that belongs to us. Something you need.”

Aron’s eyes narrowed, puzzled. He didn’t understand. His gaze drifted toward the beast’s corpse.

“Its flesh!” the Voice snapped, exasperated by his slowness.

“The flesh? I don’t have anything to cut it with, and it would just be extra weight to carry,” he replied, his doubt still lingering in his eyes.

“Stop pretending you don’t understand!” The Voice was truly annoyed now. “You know what you need to do: bend down and eat! You don’t even know why you’re still alive… don’t tempt fate!”

Each word struck like a blow, ruthless as always: the harsh truth.

Something inside him resisted that primal, almost bestial action. But the call of his stomach grew stronger, a cry he couldn’t ignore.

With a single step, he found himself bent over the beast’s neck. That step also pushed him past a boundary in his mind.

The meat was tough—raw and frozen—and his bare hands weren’t enough to tear it apart.

Taking a deep breath, he grabbed the head of the axe and began using it to cut small pieces. The blade sank in slowly, accompanied by the dull, squelching sound of steel biting into frozen tissue.

He managed to tear off a chunk. He brought it to his mouth, but chewing was a challenge: tough, rubbery, almost impossible to break down. After a while, he gave up and began swallowing the pieces whole, ignoring the knot forming in his throat.

But the anxiety gnawed at his soul. He had to move, had to act. He was too slow.

With growing agitation, he raised the axe again and started using his mouth as well. He lifted strands of meat with the blade, then tore them off with his teeth. Each bite was accompanied by a wet, sticky sound, an echo that seemed to reverberate in the cold silence of the forest.

His face, still smeared with old blood, buried itself in the carcass, his heavy breaths mixing with the steam rising from the beast’s icy body.

“We can go back now,” Aron thought, as he touched his now full stomach.

“Yes, now we can,” the Voice replied.

With slow and dragging, but steady steps, Aron set off toward the abandoned house. The cold tormented him, seeping into his open wounds, and at the same time nourished him, dulling the pain and making him stronger.

But his mind was a whirlwind of doubts and memories.

“How much have I changed in one day?” he wondered, pausing in front of his trembling reflection in a frozen stream. The face staring back at him was unrecognizable: a mask of coagulated blood, red and black, with weary eyes lit by something new. His tattered clothes barely covered the wounds beneath, tangible evidence of the battle he had just survived.

He lifted his right hand and examined it. Broken or missing nails, skin torn by deep cuts—it resembled a claw more than a human hand, as if the fight had carved the beast’s savagery into him.

“A lot,” the Voice responded, calm but relentless. “But not enough.”

Aron averted his gaze and resumed walking. Each step brought him closer to Bitterthorn, while his mind wrestled with the contrast between the man he was now—reborn under the body of a beast—and the man he had been two mornings ago, busy and anxious about going to the village center. His priorities, his thoughts—everything had changed so quickly that he could barely comprehend who he had become.

The hours passed slowly, and the sun, having reached its zenith, began its descent toward the Dragonspine. Aron finally arrived at the small grove where he had collapsed before.

His eyes scanned the area, taking in the scattered remnants: his old bow and gloves propped against a tree. But Betsy and the sled were nowhere to be found.

Something else, however, caught his attention. On the horizon, toward the village, a thin column of smoke rose into the clear sky. Black streaks marred the pristine blue, like an omen of something irreparable.

From the crest of the hill, Aron could already see the tragic scene waiting for him.

The roof of the house had collapsed, a faint black soot covering the point of impact. The stove must have caught fire but hadn’t burned enough to consume everything, overwhelmed by the cold.

And then there was Betsy.

She lay sprawled in the snow, her broken body surrounded by a red pool expanding across the white surface.

“You knew what awaited you,” the Voice whispered, calm, almost comforting in the face of the grim sight.

“Yes, but…”

The words choked in his throat, unable to escape. His wide eyes seemed to hold a thousand unspoken thoughts, but none had the courage to form.

Slowly, step by rigid step, he descended the slope, drawing closer and closer to the mule’s lifeless form. When he reached her, he crouched down.

Betsy was mutilated: her belly completely torn open, bones broken and jutting out like jagged spears. It looked as though she had fallen from a great height, a final violent act preceding a death already filled with cruelty.

Then he looked at her face.

And there they were.

Those eyes.

They were filled with fear, a terror that seemed to still scream silently, trapped in the frozen stillness of death. Betsy had suffered. She had understood what was happening to her. She had died in agony—a pain Aron recognized all too well.

Those eyes… he had seen them before.

Stolen novel; please report.

Those eyes… he had caused them before.

“She was just a mule, nothing more.”

“Yes… that’s all she was,” Aron whispered, his voice barely audible, as if trying to convince himself. But the words felt hollow, weightless.

He forced himself to keep walking, each step an act of sheer will, his legs moving forward despite the storm of thoughts raging inside him. His destination was clear: the wide-open door of his house, waiting silently, an ominous shadow on his path.

Stepping inside, Aron could barely make out the pantry to his left. Beyond the center of the room, everything had collapsed. The roof, the walls—everything had crumbled into a heap of debris that extended all the way to the bedrooms.

But it wasn’t the wreckage that froze him in place.

It was the blood.

A dark stain stretched across the floor, pooling beneath the collapsed roof.

His breath hitched, his heart pounding as if to escape his chest. He knew his mother should have been in her room—he had tucked her into bed himself two nights ago.

But the thought that she might now be in the living room tormented him.

No, both possibilities were killing him.

“You already decided this was the past. None of this should matter to you anymore,” the Voice said, calm and implacable.

“Yes… but maybe… maybe she was waiting for me,” Aron whispered, his voice trembling, barely holding together.

“Or maybe the followers of Fimbulwinter brought her here. And the rest… well, you can imagine it.”

Aron clenched his fists. “I don’t need to know,” he murmured, as if the words could shield him from the truth.

“Exactly,” the Voice continued. “Once again, life has made the choice for you. It’s taken away even your last, rusted chain.”

“Something or someone always decides for me,” Aron hissed, frustration bubbling to the surface. “When will I get to choose?”

“When you are truly strong,” the Voice replied, solemn and prophetic. “When your name becomes a whispered fear among men and beasts. When a single thought of yours can alter the course of the world.”

The words echoed in Aron’s mind like a thunderclap. He understood them; he even accepted them. Yet, they felt distant, as if they belonged to someone else entirely.

They were like a cloak too large for him, words too proud and bold for someone like him to wear.

Within him, hot ambition and cold despair waged a silent war. As he turned to leave the house forever, his gaze fell upon something on the floor.

A hinge.

It was the one he had purchased in the village: new, clean, and out of place amidst the destruction.

He picked it up, clutching it in his fingers. For reasons he couldn’t quite explain, he decided he needed to mount it on the door. He had put it off for far too long.

“It’s pointless. A waste of time,” the Voice remarked, skeptical and confused.

“Yes, it is. But it doesn’t matter. I want to do it, so I will,” Aron said.

As he spoke, a strange sense of relief washed over him. When everything loses its meaning, everything gains the same value. And in that seemingly meaningless act, Aron found a fragment of purpose.

With conflicted emotions, Aron left the house behind. A door to his past, a doorway that led only to destruction, frost, and death.

An unnatural silence hung in the air as he approached the village. The faint smell of smoke lingered, though no flames or plumes were visible anymore.

From the ridge overlooking the settlement, the truth became clear. Many of the houses and buildings bore the same scars of ruin as his home. Yet, only by descending further could he grasp the full extent of the damage.

Advancing from the outskirts toward the center, Aron noticed the grim details that painted the scene. Mud streaked with blood formed dark, sticky patches on the paths. Doors hung broken or lay shattered; some houses had collapsed entirely.

In the homes that still stood, faint, muffled cries could be heard—expressions of grief and despair. Other buildings stood eerily silent, their empty windows like hollow eye sockets staring into nothingness.

When Aron reached the cobblestone streets, his gaze settled on the Hunter’s Lodge.

The heavy door was gone, and the interior lay shrouded in chaos.

Aron stepped inside, his movements hesitant but deliberate, as if every step weighed on his soul. His emotions swirled within him: anger, guilt, sorrow—none finding clarity.

Inside, the scene was one of utter disarray. The missing door lay flat on the floor like a tattered welcome mat. Shelves had been torn apart, their contents strewn everywhere. The walls bore marks of destruction, as if someone had unleashed their fury indiscriminately.

“Brandon…” The name escaped his lips before he even realized it.

“Brandon…” he called again, louder this time, but the silence was unbroken.

As he turned to head toward the back, a voice, worn but steady, broke through the quiet.

“I’m here… is that your voice, Aron?”

The sound of heavy footsteps echoed from the rear room. Then, the familiar figure of Brandon appeared in the doorway, his presence filling the room despite his weariness.

“Damn! It really is you, Aron?” Surprise flickered across the older man’s face.

“Yeah, who else would it be?” Aron replied, though his tone was confused, uncertain.

“Honestly? With all that dried blood on you, you’re not exactly easy to recognize. Your face… it’s almost unrecognizable.”

“Oh… right, this,” Aron murmured, running a hand across his face. The blood, dirt, and grime came away on his fingers, a reminder of the battles he’d endured.

The tension between them eased, but a silence lingered, heavy with unspoken words.

Aron’s gaze dropped to Brandon’s missing arm.

“Your arm?” Aron asked, gesturing toward the absent limb.

Brandon gave a wry chuckle. “Ah, that. The Frostreavers came through and razed everything. I guess I was lucky—they only took my arm and the Sparks.” His laugh carried a bitter edge. “Turns out I’m pretty damn good at playing dead.”

His voice was light, almost jovial, but the truth beneath it was raw and brutal.

“The Frostreavers… those were the ones on the wyverns?”

“Yes. The Frostreavers. The Blizzard’s Edge. It was them,” Brandon said, his tone carrying a mix of resignation and anger. “We never stood a chance. Thirty wyverns, each carrying three Frostreavers. That’s ninety elite fighters. And every single one of them was a Level 3 existence. And that’s not even counting the wyverns themselves. It was 120 against zero.”

The hopelessness in Brandon’s voice was palpable, each word a testament to the overwhelming odds.

“120 Level 3 existences…” Aron’s voice trailed off, the weight of those words sinking in. Level 3—Great Knights. Existences close to the legendary realm and capable of shaping the outcomes of wars.

“What were they doing in a village this small?” he asked, almost to himself.

“How should I know?” Brandon snapped, his bitterness rising.

“Yeah… I let my thoughts wander,” Aron muttered, averting his gaze.

Brandon sighed, his eyes distant as though recalling a memory he wished to forget. “From what I know, since the great battle in the eastern plains sixty years ago, they’ve never ventured this far from their homeland. And certainly not in such numbers…”

He paused, his voice growing quieter. “Maybe this was an isolated case. But if it wasn’t…”

The unspoken implications hung in the air, heavier than any words could express.

The weight of Brandon’s statement settled deeply in Aron’s chest, yet it didn’t evoke fear. Instead, it ignited something else within him—a flame of desire.

“I need to rest now, kid,” Brandon said, breaking the silence. His exhaustion was evident in his voice, each word seeming heavier than the last. Then, as if remembering something, he added, “Oh, by the way, have you been to your house yet? Was it hit?”

“Yes, it’s gone,” Aron replied tersely, his tone devoid of emotion, as though stating a fact he had already accepted.

“I see…” Brandon’s expression softened into one of pity as he looked at the man before him. Aron’s demeanor was changing, becoming colder, more distant—like those hardened souls from the northern territories.

“Thanks for the salves the other day,” Aron added, his voice flat but sincere. He turned without waiting for a response, heading toward the door.

Behind him, Brandon watched his retreating figure, unable to shake the sense of loss that lingered in the air. He let out a deep sigh, muttering to himself, “It was your reward… You owe me nothing.” His words, meant for no one, were carried away by the wind.

As Aron continued walking, the village unfolded before him like a grim tapestry of suffering. Every step brought him face-to-face with more pain and loss. Broken doors, shattered windows that stared out like hollow eyes, and the faint sound of muffled sobs mixed with the relentless whisper of the wind.

Then something caught his attention. Even from a distance, it was impossible to miss: the remains of the inn. Or rather, what little was left of it.

The building was a skeleton of its former self, its charred beams jutting into the sky like accusing fingers. The roof had collapsed, and beneath it, the ground was a mixture of ash, mud, and debris, a grim testament to the destruction that had unfolded there.

But it wasn’t the sight that stopped Aron in his tracks. It was the sound—heart-wrenching cries and anguished screams that tore through the still air, raw and unrelenting.

His pace slowed as he approached. The source of the commotion became clear: a woman knelt in the muck, clutching a small, shrouded figure in her arms. Her cries were a knife, cutting through the silence and stabbing at the hearts of anyone who heard them.

Aron walked closer, his steps deliberate but heavy. His shadow fell over the scene, and as he drew near, his gaze fell upon the shrouded figure.

Then he saw them.

Those same eyes.

They stared back at him, lifeless, filled only with fear and pain.

It was Lucy.

The small, tattered blanket couldn’t fully cover her. Her neck was exposed, crushed and mangled, bearing the marks of something inhuman. His gaze traveled downward, taking in her bruised, scratched legs, and the remains of her torn clothing strewn about like the remnants of a brutal story no one wanted to read.

Aron’s expression didn’t change. He didn’t stop.

He continued walking, his boots splashing softly in the mud and filth that lined the road.

The path stretched out before him, a grim and endless expanse. It wasn’t just a physical road—it was a promise.

A promise of the future that awaited him: one filled with death, with war, with suffering.

Every step he took carried him closer to that destiny.

Every breath was a prelude to the world he would soon confront.