The frigid wind whispered through the ancient corridors, carrying a sharp, bitter edge that gnawed at the skin like a blade. Each step was deliberate, every crunch of snow underfoot a reminder, a pressure, pressing down on them with an unseen weight. Theodas moved with purpose, his gaze darting across the frost-encrusted walls, searching, seeking. He could feel it—a presence, something ancient, watching, waiting, its gaze heavy in the stillness. The tension in the air was alive, crackling like static before a storm.
Ochrea followed, her movements fluid, almost predatory, yet her mind remained locked in at the possibility of a brutal dance of battle. Each step carried the memory of blood, of screams. Bjorn and the Chief flanked her, their grips tightening on their weapons, eyes scanning the darkness. The ruins, once a testament to some forgotten civilization, now seemed to pulse with a dark energy. The stone walls pressed in on them, the veins of rare metals glowing faintly, as if alive, as if they, too, were waiting.
“There’s something wrong about this place,” Bjorn muttered, his voice low, barely cutting through the silence. “Feels like we’re not supposed to be here.”
“Keep your eyes sharp,” Theodas replied, his voice a low growl, the words clipped, urgent, as if any moment they might be swallowed by the dark. “We’re close to something, but I can’t tell what.”
They stepped into a vast chamber, the air thick, cloying with the musty scent of decay. Theodas’ heart pounded as his gaze fell upon a massive pile of debris in the center of the room. Instinctively, they began to clear it away, their movements synchronized, fast—almost frantic. As they worked, the Chief paused, his eyes narrowing as he uncovered something beneath the rubble.
“Look here,” the Chief said, his voice hushed, reverent, pointing to the exposed surface. “There’s something carved into the floor.”
As the last of the debris was swept aside, a mandala was revealed—a massive, intricate design etched into the floor, its patterns twisted and turned, lines coiling like a living thing. The patterns seemed to pulse with a life of their own, each line a thread in a tapestry that had been woven across millennia. This wasn’t just a relic—it was a warning.
Circling around the mandala, Theodas murmured, “This isn’t just decoration,” his voice tight with realization, his heart racing as the cold sweat pricked at his neck. “It’s a map… but unlike any I’ve ever seen.”
The Chief knelt down, his fingers trembling as they brushed the surface of the mandala. “These metals… they’re rare, even by Dwarven standards. And the crystals—some of them, I’ve never seen before. This here could be mithril, and that piece near the middle might even be adamas stone. But this,” he added, motioning to the border, “is something else entirely.”
The others moved in closer, cautiously, their eyes narrowing, suspicion flickering across their faces as they tried to make sense of the unfamiliar landmass far to the east, across an ocean that seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly light. Theodas’ thoughts raced, his breath quickening, his mind piecing together fragments, fragments that felt too large, too heavy.
Bjorn raised an eyebrow towards Theodas. “You sure about that? Looks like a damn headache waiting to happen.”
“It’s so much more than you could possibly imagine,” Theodas insisted, his pulse quickening, the walls of the room seemed to close in, the air thick, almost suffocating. “It’s showing us something we weren’t meant to see.”
As Theodas knelt to examine the mandala more closely, a glint of silver caught his eye, flickering in the gloom like a ghost. Walking over, he reached down, his fingers brushing against the cold metal of a bracelet tangled among some scattered bones they had moved. It was intricately crafted, the delicate designs unmistakably elven. His breath caught in his throat, a chill creeping down his spine, a cold realization washing over him.
“These bones…” he whispered, his voice a thread, the weight of his ancestors pressing heavily on his chest. “They’re elves… ancient ones, even by elven standards.”
And then it hit him—a tidal wave of memories, grief, and questions that had no answers. Each thought was a blade, cutting deeper, the edges too sharp, too raw. What had happened here? How had they ended up so far from the World Tree? Would their souls find peace? The sorrow welled up inside him, threatening to drown him, but he couldn’t let it—there was no time for that. No time to mourn, no time to bury the dead. Yet, as he stared at the remains, the practical side of him saw this as an opportunity, a necessity wrapped in despair. His son—a half-elf—would need these bones to lay to rest in order for him to even get close to the World Tree.
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He blinked, forcing himself back to the present, back to the cold, hard reality of the chamber. The dark closed in, the walls seeming to whisper in a language only the dead could understand. As he shifted a few more bones, his hand brushed against something solid—a hilt. He pulled it free, revealing a broken sword, the blade shattered, but the hilt intact. It was made of the wood from the World Tree, the grain swirling with a subtle, ancient power. The wood seemed to pulse under his touch, alive with the whispers of those who had wielded it before, a voice that reached across the ages.
Now this is a sword with a backstory! The hilt here, it’s from the World Tree itself—like wielding a piece of legend, only sharper. I’d say it belonged to one of those Explorers of the Dawn. You know, the kind who couldn’t just stay home and read a nice scroll—no, they had to go off and discover things. And by 'things,' I mean places where you’re not supposed to go without at least a dozen lifetimes of experience. Holding this sword? It’s like balancing on the edge of every forgotten tale and ancient burden—and all without spilling your drink. Also, in case you’re wondering, using World Tree wood has been banned since humans first decided to get curious about everything. In case you’re wondering, the World Tree wood has been off-limits since humans first decided to get curious about everything. No offense, sweetheart, but we couldn’t have any part falling into human hands. You know how they are—they find something sexy and beautiful, and suddenly they want more.”
The two dwarves rolled their eyes and Ochrea let out a playful snort followed by an understanding nod.
The significance of the find wasn’t lost on them. They had uncovered not just relics, but a piece of history—a piece that might hold the key to all their futures.
Suddenly, a sound from a side chamber broke the silence. It was subtle at first, almost like a whisper, but it cut through the air like a knife. There, huddled in a crude nest of furs and bones, were two female Frost Trolls, each nursing a pair of young. The sight of them—massive, fearsome creatures reduced to vulnerability—gave the group pause. The young Trolls, though still small, were already the size of grown men, their eyes wide with a mix of fear and innocence that almost made them look… human.
For a moment, the group hesitated. Ochrea's hand tightened around her weapon, but doubt gnawed at her. The blood on the snow, the screams, the violence—it all weighed on her now, clawing at her insides like a beast trying to tear its way out. These were not the mindless beasts that attacked earlier, but women and literal children.
"Do we…?" Ochrea's voice was barely more than a whisper, the question trailing off into the cold, dark air.
“We must,” Bjorn said, his voice firm but carrying the weight of a man who knew the price of survival. His eyes were hard, unyielding, but somewhere deep down, there was a flicker of something else—a sorrow that mirrored her own. “If we leave them, they’ll grow, and they’ll become a threat to the village.”
Ochrea closed her eyes, the images of the battle, of the lives taken, flashing behind her eyelids. The necessity of the act did little to ease the gnawing guilt that settled in her gut. Her breath came out in a shudder, the cold seeping into her bones. She had seen too much, done too much—but now was not the time to hesitate.
Without another word, they moved as one, their grim task echoing through the ancient halls, each step heavier, each breath harder to take. When it was done, Theodas turned to the bodies of the Troll mothers, his mind already calculating.
“We need their milk,” he said, breaking the silence. His voice was steady, but there was a cold edge to it, one that made the others flinch. He hated the way his words sounded, hated the necessity of them, but there was no other way. “It will stay fresh for the long journey, and it may have properties that could be of benefit.”
The others stared at him, a mixture of horror and disgust on their faces, but there was something in Theodas’ eyes that told them not to argue. His gaze was hard, unrelenting, the burden of what they had done weighing on his shoulders. He approached the Trolls with the precision of a surgeon, carefully dissecting the mammary glands. Despite his skill, his hands trembled slightly, not from fear, but from the weight of what they had become… butchers.
He managed to save three of the four glands, placing the intact ones into one of the Chief’s storage rings after requesting it. The ring felt heavier than it should, a tangible reminder of the lines they had crossed. It would keep them in stasis until they could move them into one of his own.
“This is madness,” the Chief muttered, though he handed over the ring without further protest. There was a resignation in his voice, the sound of a man who had seen too much to be surprised anymore. “But if it helps your wee one survive, who am I to argue?”
After coming up empty finding anything obvious of worth or note they prepared to leave the ruins, Bjorn braking the uneasy silence with a surprising observation. “You know, killing off the Frost Trolls might’ve just screwed with the whole damn ecosystem near the village.”
The others turned to him, surprise flickering across their faces. The Chief raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
Bjorn shrugged, though his tone was serious. “The Trolls were the apex predators here. With them gone, other creatures might move in, or the prey animals could overpopulate. It could take years for things to stabilize.”
The group exchanged glances, the weight of what they had done settling on them, layer by layer. Bjorn caught their looks and grinned wryly. “I’m not just a pretty face and a powerful axe, you know.”
Ochrea managed a small smile, but it felt hollow, a mere echo of what it should have been. Her mind still clouded by the image of the young Trolls, their innocent eyes staring back at her even as she had brought down her weapon.
As they turned to leave the ruins, Theodas took one last look at the mandala, the bones of his ancestors, the broken sword with the World Tree hilt, and the cold reality of their situation. The echoes of the past lingered in the air, each artifact a reminder of what was lost and what might yet be reclaimed. The sword, once wielded by a forgotten hero, now passed to a future uncertain but full of promise.
So much had been lost, so many voices silenced by time. But even in this desolation, there was a flicker of hope, a chance that the truths uncovered here would guide them forward. Their journey was far from over, and the burden of the past would weigh heavily on their steps, but perhaps, just perhaps, their path would lead to redemption—and to a future where their son could carry the legacy of his people into the light of a new dawn.