Chief Thrian Stonehelm sat at the head of the longhouse table, his weathered face a map of concern, each line etched by years of battle and leadership. “Every ten or twenty years, the Frost Trolls venture out from their territory and nearly wipe out the local wildlife,” he began, his deep voice carrying the weight of experience and the gravitas of countless battles fought. “It likely happens just before or after their hibernation. They haven’t attacked the village in force—usually just two or three at a time—but our tall walls and fire-enchanted weapons have kept them at bay.”
He paused, the words lingering like a distant echo, heavy and inescapable. The flickering firelight played across the rough-hewn beams above, casting long, restless shadows that danced and twisted, mirroring the unease that settled like a mantle on the shoulders of those gathered.
“But now, we’ve likely encroached on their territory. We either wipe them out or brace for more than we can handle.” Thrian’s gaze swept the room, pausing on each warrior’s face. “And if we’re to investigate those ruins, we need to be ready.”
The longhouse was steeped in the warm, flickering light of the central fire, the scent of wood smoke mingling with the earthy aroma of the thatched roof. Outside, the wind howled like a distant beast, rattling the wooden shutters as if echoing the Chief’s concerns. The room itself felt like a fragile sanctuary against the harsh, unforgiving land they called home, yet the danger outside seemed to creep closer with every gust of wind.
“I don’t have the manpower to send more,” the Chief continued, his voice steady but lined with an undercurrent of worry that matched the storm outside. “But I’m willing to go myself, with one other warrior.”
Bjorn, mid-chew with a mouthful of porridge, spoke up. “I’ll go.” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, a rough grin splitting his face. The room fell silent, all eyes turning to him, gauging his resolve. “What? My axe is sharp and deadly, forged in the fires of battle, and my swing is more powerful than most. Who wouldn’t want a shot at glory, and the chance to protect those they love?” He grinned at Ingrid, the firelight reflecting in his eyes. “Just make your famous rabbit stew when I get back.”
Ingrid rolled her eyes, though a faint blush crept into her cheeks. “Just come back alive, Bjorn,” she muttered, her voice tight, trying to mask the worry underneath.
The Chief nodded, a rare smile touching his lips. “Thank you, Bjorn. That makes four of us against what I can only imagine will be at least half a dozen Frost Trolls. Are you sure this is a fight you’re ready to take on?”
Theodas glanced around the table, his expression serious. “I have fire magic at my disposal. It’s not much, but it might just tip the scales. I’ll focus on silencing any magic the Frost Trolls might use, which should limit their ability to regenerate and cast ice armor.”
Ochrea spoke up next, her tone confidently measured. “I’m no mage, but I can channel some mana through my arm to cast a minor flame on my hammer. It’s limited, but I believe I can take on two or three myself, especially if they can’t regenerate.”
The Chief raised an eyebrow, intrigued by her arm, but Ochrea simply smirked. “There’ll be plenty of time to compare scars and swap war stories once this is all over.”
A heavy silence followed, filled with the unspoken weight of what lay ahead. Theodas broke it, his voice low and thoughtful, almost as if speaking to the shadows around him. “The ruins may hold secrets,” he said, more to himself than to the others. “Secrets that might not want to be found. And yet, we press on—because to turn away from the unknown is to invite it to come to us, unbidden and inescapable.”
Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
Bjorn’s grin softened as he considered Theodas’s words, the firelight casting gentle shadows across his face. “Let those secrets stay buried,” he said, his voice tinged with a quiet resolve. “But I won’t let those trolls take anything more from us. Our people, our homes—they deserve to be safe.” He looked around at his companions, his expression earnest. “We fight for them, for what we love. That’s all the reason I need.”
Chief Thrian looked around the table, seeing the resolve in each warrior’s eyes but also sensing the uncertainty that lingered. This battle against the Frost Trolls was not just a test of their strength, but a crucible that would forge or break them. The wind outside howled again, as if the world beyond the walls mirrored their doubts and fears.
With the plan set, the group steeled themselves for the daunting task ahead. The stakes were high, and the resolve in the longhouse unshakable. This battle would test not only their strength and unity but also their courage to face the unknown, the ancient, and the deadly.
Chief Thrian Stonehelm, Bjorn, Theodas, and Ochrea gathered their supplies and potions with quiet determination. The atmosphere was thick with purpose, each movement deliberate as they prepared for the journey ahead. Before setting out, Ochrea and Theodas each kissed their son gently on the forehead, leaving him in Ingrid's care. The child reached up, his small hand grasping at the air, a gesture that tugged at their hearts as they turned to go, their farewells whispered but resolute.
As the group gathered their supplies, Theodas found himself staring into the flames, the flickering light playing tricks on his mind. What secrets lay buried in those ruins? He shook off the thought, pushing it aside. Now wasn’t the time for doubt; there were more immediate dangers ahead.
Their journey began through the winding mine shafts deep within the mountain. The path twisted like a labyrinth of dark stone, each footstep echoing in the confined space, as if the mountain itself was aware of their passage. As they ascended through the mountain’s core, they emerged into the biting cold of the snow-covered peaks, where the wind howled, biting at exposed skin. The elements seemed to conspire against them, the cold gnawing at their resolve even as they pressed on, weaving in and out of the mountain, alternating between the claustrophobic tunnels and the vast, frozen wilderness outside. After nearly three hours of grueling travel, they arrived at the entrance to the ancient ruins.
A massive door loomed before them, its iron hinges long since rusted and rotted, hanging askew as if some great beast had torn it open in a fit of rage. The ground was littered with snow, bones, dried blood, and foul-smelling excrement—the grim remnants of past battles and the evidence of Frost Trolls who had made this place their domain.
Chief Thrian raised a closed fist, signaling the group to halt. He motioned for Theodas to join him at the front. “Theodas, I trust you can create a Silence barrier, one that holds strong and keeps our presence hidden?”
Theodas nodded. “Yes,” he replied, though unsure of the chief’s intentions.
“Place one around the entrance, the largest area you can without draining too much of your mana. I’m going to sing, and with luck, we’ll reshape this landscape to our advantage. There’s no point fighting a stronger opponent on their terms when we can force them to fight on ours.”
Theodas’s respect for the village chief deepened. Concentrating, he drew upon his mana reserves, his hand tracing a complex sigil in the air. As the spell took shape, a shimmering, translucent barrier enveloped a 500-meter radius. The chief nodded in approval, his eyes gleaming with the knowledge of what was to come. He began to sing, his deep voice resonating with the ancient power of the earth. The chant, an old dwarven invocation, was filled with the rhythm of stone, each word a command to the very bones of the mountain.
As Thrian sang, the ground trembled and shifted. The stone seemed to awaken, responding to his call as it rose up, forming a series of funneling walls that guided any approach into narrow, treacherous passages. Jagged spikes jutted from hidden pits, designed to ensnare and crush. At the center of this newly forged landscape, a fortress-like structure emerged, its walls thick and unyielding, providing the group with a secure vantage point from which to fight.
When the chant ended, both Theodas and Chief Thrian were visibly drained, their energy spent. Theodas, feeling the weight of the spell’s exertion, offered a mana potion to the chief, who declined with a weary chuckle.
“I only wish it were that easy to recover,” he said. “The magic comes from the songs and my connection to the earth, no mana required—just time, will, and the weight of exhaustion.” Thrian’s tone was steady, but there was an underlying fatigue. “These songs—they’re ancient, passed down through generations. Without that bond, they’re just whispers on the wind.”
Bjorn and Ochrea stood watch, their weapons ready, as the two men sat down to recover. The newly formed defenses loomed around them, not just as a physical barrier but as a testament to their will and the ancient power that flowed through Thrian’s voice. The wind howled through the freshly carved stone walls, and the group waited, every sense attuned to the silence that lay before the storm, hoping the Frost Trolls wouldn’t come before they were fully prepared.