Denor of Andron VII, still at that awkward stage of life where you're supposed to know better but for some inexplicable reason have failed to do so, headed in the opposite direction of the still-smoking ruins of what had once been a village. Well, it had been a village a few hours ago. Now it was more of an ex-village. Second one this year, too, which was starting to feel like an unfortunate trend everywhere he went.

He cast a sideways glance at his companions, a mixed bag of worn faces and frayed tempers. Their trek northward felt like they were collectively escaping the frying pan, only to aim for a freezer. Rumor had it there were homesteads up there, though anyone who'd actually stayed in one long enough to tell the tale had apparently kept it to themselves. Still, an abandoned hut—even an unheated one—was better than being turned into a frozen statue. Barely.

"I’m sending you and Charan further north," Ledo said, the weariness that had hung over him like a cloak finally lifting, replaced by a hard, sharp edge of purpose. It was the look of a man who knew he was about to do something deeply unpleasant and wasn’t particularly sorry for it.

Denor shot him a look. "Why me and Charan?" he asked, showing his trademark ignorance. “I thought we were all supposed to huddle up somewhere and avoid getting skewered by Trunian scouts.”

“We are,” Ledo said with a nod. “But there’s something more urgent. And it concerns your... condition.”

Denor's frown was the kind that should have just stayed on his face permanently, to avoid constantly having to reappear any time someone said something confusing. “Condition? What condition?”

Ledo puffed out a frozen breath that turned the air around him into a brief, frosty cloud. Clearly, it was one of those conversations, the ones you’d rather have after a stiff drink, and possibly from behind a very large rock. “The ‘not dying’ thing. Remember?”

Denor sighed. “Charan says it’s a real nuisance.”

“I’m right here Denor,” Charan pointed out, continuing to stand beside him. “I do though, yes. Though those weren’t my exact words. I didn’t really appreciate waking up to a wolf trying to gnaw off my foot.”

Ledo’s grimace twitched—perhaps a smile trying to break free but getting lost along the way. “Well, it’s time you met the only other person I know on this entire frozen rock who has the same... issue.”

Denor blinked, trying to wrap his head around the idea that someone else might share his strange, inconvenient longevity. Despite the fact that someone else sharing his strange, inconvenient longevity was stood right next to him “And where was this mystery immortal during the battle? Taking a nap?”

“He’s old enough that he trained your grandfather when he was still trying to put on his shoes,” Ledo replied with the kind of casual understatement reserved for people who regularly experience impossible things. “Not much use in a fight these days, I’d imagine.”

Denor stared at him like he’d just claimed the sky was green. “You mean he’s even older than Hevath? That’s not possible.”

“Much older,” Ledo confirmed, his eyes drifting toward the distant mountains, where the snow danced in lazy spirals like fireflies trapped in a jar.

Denor crossed his arms, defiant. “I don’t believe it.”

Ledo glanced back at him with the expression of a man whose patience was wearing thin. “So you reckon Darag Kenna, the oldest man in these hills, is just a compulsive liar?”

“I’m not a compulsive liar!” Denor cried.

Charan whispered in his ear.

“Oh,” Denor amended, fury dissipating. “Darag Kenna. That’s a totally different name than Denor Kara.”

“Before you asked, you weren’t named after him, this is all just a coincidence,” Ledo said, trying not to think of Tamet too much.

“Nobody was older than old Hevath,” Charan added with all the confidence of someone stating that snow was cold. “Some of his stories sounded like they came from the dawn of time, and now you’re telling us there’s someone who makes him look like a teenager?”

Ledo’s reply was as swift as it was unexpected. “I trekked to our old village from the northern mountains fifty summers ago. Back when this land was still finding out how to be civilized. Darag was ancient then, sitting in the same spot he lives in now. House was in better shape back then, mind you, but funny thing—he hasn’t aged a day since. At least not when I last saw him.”

“This isn’t going to be a long story, is it?” Denor asked worriedly.

“No!” Ledo snapped.

Denor’s eyebrows shot up like startled birds. “And you never thought to mention this before?”

His father shrugged in that infuriating way that suggested he hadn’t because it hadn’t seemed important until now. “Figured if I told you recently you’d put it down to the fact that my core’s a bit... faulty. So I waited for that to settle first. But Darag? He was a true first. First Andronian to settle those parts, built his house miles away from the nearest neighbor, back when Gurruks roamed the hills like they owned the place. And everyone called him ‘old Darag’ even then.”

Charan, who’d been quietly listening, chimed in with the kind of dry wit that made people either laugh or want to punch him. “So he’s a storyteller. You believe him, Denor doesn’t. We’re all blessed by Tamet, Lord of Tricksters, and it sounds to me like he’s pulled the wool over your eyes.”

Ledo shot him a look that suggested a lecture was incoming. "The last big Gurruk raid was thirty summers ago," he said, his voice taking on the tone of someone settling in for a nice, leisurely bout of reminiscing. Denor braced himself. Despite assurances to the contrary, Ledo had that same faraway look in his eye that Hevath once had—the one that usually preceded long-winded stories about battles, improbable feats of heroism, and mysterious old men with secrets that absolutely no one had asked for.

"I was just a young man then," Ledo continued, "full of beans and bad ideas. Darag was there, too. Took down the Gurruk chief from seven hundred paces with a bolt. Clean as you like."

Denor squinted. "Where did you get the beans from? Can I have some?"

“The beans are metaphorical, Denor,” Charan informed him.

“So? I’ll still eat them.”

Ledo ignored him. "But that was just one fight. Before that, Tycho was in another battle with him at a place called Frozen Spring. Gurruks came raiding at sunset. Darag killed seven of them, and the rest turned tail and ran. But three of our own fell, and Darag—he got a spear through the chest."

"That hurts," Denor said, nodding sagely. He knew from experience of things going through your chest. It wasn’t something you forgot.

"Grievous wound," Ledo agreed, with the air of a man describing a particularly bad hangover. "Tycho thought he was dead for sure. Then, out of nowhere, this old Gurruk steps out of the bushes. Makes a peace sign and says he’s a friend of Darag’s. Can you imagine? A friend, and a Gurruk talking at that? Asked Tycho to carry Darag into the woods and just... leave him there."

Denor blinked. "And Tycho did it?"

Ledo’s face twitched in that way it did when he was trying to be wise and mysterious, which mostly came across as looking like he was about to be angry at someone. "To this day, I’ve no idea why. Maybe the old goat and that Gurruk had some strange understanding. Night fell, and they camped nearby, listening to all sorts of strange noises coming from the woods. An owl hooted all night. At sunrise, Darag staggered out—alive, pale as death, but the wound was healing. Since then, he’s never spoken of it. And he hasn’t aged a day. Still looks about fifty winters old."

A thoughtful silence followed, broken only by the soft tapping of Ledo’s fingers on a plot-convenient datapad. Eventually, he wisely handed it to Charan, who accepted it with a skeptical look. Denor was pointedly ignored, presumably because he’d lose the thing within five minutes.

"I want you to head to these coordinates," Ledo said with a briskness that suggested he wasn’t interested in further scrutiny of his improbable story.

Charan glanced at the pad, then back at Ledo. "Very well. Do you have a corresponding tracker so we can meet you after?"

Ledo nodded, and that was that. Off they went.

As they trudged off into the snowy wilderness, Charan—never one to miss an opportunity to ponder—turned his thoughts into words. "I’ll be amazed if we find him alive," he said, his voice carried by the wind. "A man his supposed age, living up here in Gurruk territory? It’s madness."

"Ledo didn’t make him sound that old," Denor said, his brow furrowing like a man wrestling with complex mathematics, though in this case, it was just the concept of time.

Charan sighed. You needed at least three people for a party with Denor. Two people was just an argument waiting to happen, usually over him misunderstanding something simple.

“Wait for me!” Gella cried, much to his relief.

The three Andronians split off from the group and headed north. They encountered precisely zero perilous adventures, which in itself was probably the most surprising thing of all.

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***

Darag’s home was one of those buildings that looked like it had been built by someone who didn’t quite trust modern architecture. It was all squat stone and sturdy defiance, as if daring the winds and the centuries to do their worst. The sort of building that considered ‘technology’ to be a strange word from an untrustworthy language. And from the looks of it, the aforementioned centuries had done a number on it. The place hadn’t seen a decent repair in decades, but it still stood, stubborn as its owner. Inside, Darag lay on a bed that could generously be described as ‘basic,’ receiving the kind of rough but well-meaning care that only Gella could provide—Gella, who had insisted on tagging along with Charan so he wasn’t alone with Denor, despite Ledo's protests that had probably reached new levels of vehement.

The old man had angrily refused any visitors, until Gella spoke. There was something about her that was different than Charan and Denor, but our erstwhile hero couldn’t quite figure it out. Whatever it was, it made Darag treat her much nicer than the two boys.

At their offer to give him food and potentially get him more food, the man’s disposition thawed from ‘exceedingly angry’ to ‘vaguely tolerant’.

Denor stood watching, unable to shake the odd feeling that Darag didn’t quite fit the role of bedridden ancient. Sure, the old man looked worn and bent, like someone who'd been ground down by life’s relentless treadmill—but he was far from withered. Ledo had been right, there was a vitality to him, a kind of stubborn, grizzled strength that clung to his frame like a bad habit. His limbs still looked like they could crush rocks, and his neck had the sinewy toughness of a man who wasn’t about to let a thing like ‘time’ get the better of him. Even his face, carved by years and hardship, seemed more weathered than weak, and could pass for his father’s age. His eyes were what gave him away, though. Pain glazed them, yes, but deep within, there was a depth of untold ages.

See that was the problem, the man had been hit by an Aurox shortly before they had arrived, so he was in no condition to impart said knowledge of untold ages.

“He was furious while you went hunting,” Gella muttered, sounding both exasperated and impressed.

“First Andronian this far north,” came Darag’s hoarse mutterings, his words slowly becoming more coherent as his mind clawed its way back to the present. “These hills... never been trod by any foot but mine. Too old now. Must settle. Can’t keep going like this. Good Gurruk land, this. Before... before they all come swarming in.”

Charan shook his head, his face heavy with pity. "He's shattered inside from where that Aurox trampled him. He won’t see another sunrise."

Which, of course, was when Darag decided to make a liar of him.

With a painful groan, the old man lifted his head, his eyes blazing with that unquenchable fire. “Wrong,” he rasped, his breath rattling in his chest like broken clockwork. “I will survive. Broken bones and twisted guts from a runaway Aurox attack mean nothing. It’s the heart that counts. As long as the heart beats, a person can’t die. Hear it—feel it!”

That the man had survived a collision from an Aurox at his age itself was a shock.

With a surprising amount of strength, Darag grabbed Charan’s wrist and pressed it to his chest, his gaze burning holes through the younger man’s skull. “Feel that? A normal beat, yes? Stronger than any wild trampling Aurox, that’s for sure!”

Charan, half in disbelief, nodded. Then he turned to Denor, gesturing for him to join the odd ritual. “Put your hand here,” he said, guiding Denor’s hand to the old man’s chest.

Denor, not usually in the habit of checking other people’s heartbeats, hesitated, but when his hand touched Darag’s chest, he felt it—a beat unlike anything he’d ever known. It wasn’t just beating. It was humming, like the low thrumming of distant drums. The pulse was so powerful it seemed to make Darag’s ribs vibrate, and as Denor’s hand rested there, he felt the force of it creeping up his arm, making his own heart race in some strange, sympathetic rhythm.

"I am like you boys," Darag wheezed, his voice strained but defiant. "I cannot die—not while this heart beats within me. Only a bolt through the brain could end me, and even then, I’d still get back up as long as this heart keeps going.”

“You mean your undying power is better than the one Litarn gave us?”

The man laughed, a painful sound. “Litarn? That boy was your grandfather’s pupil. He fiddled about with his stones and made a mere approximation of what I have!”

Well, that was information that Ledo had unhelpfully omitted.

“So we’re just a cheap copy of the real thing?” Charan asked.

“Perhaps, but this heart... it isn’t mine. Not really. It belongs to Ghurmain, chief of the Gurruks. It was once the heart of a god they worshipped before our people drove them from their lands."

Denor and Charan stared, unsure if they were hearing the ramblings of a madman or something far stranger.

“Do we have to listen to this story?” Denor asked. “We knew an old man named Hevath you see and...”

"I knew Ghurmain back in the wandering days," Darag continued over the top of him, the words spilling out now, quick and raw. "Saved his life once, from robbers. He bound us with the Gurruk bond, a tie stronger than blood when we ate of those robbers. When I was at death’s door, during that fight up at Frozen Spring... Ghurmain came to me. That’s when I got this scar.” He tapped the bluish mark on his chest, a scar Denor had never noticed until now—probably because he hadn’t made a habit of inspecting the old man’s chest.

“Did you just admit to cannibalism?” Charan asked.

“Ghurmain gave me his heart,” Darag whispered, ignoring the boy as a fierce grin twisted his lips. “And now, as long as it beats, I will never fall."

“Hevath used to tell these really long stories and they weren’t that interest…” Denor began.

"I was as good as dead, I tell you. My heart split in two like a festival pig on market day, laid open for all the world to see." Darag’s voice had the kind of rasp that suggested he had spent a lot of time shouting at things that didn’t listen—mountains, storms, and the occasional rampaging Aurox. "All night, Ghurmain worked his strange magic, calling my spirit back from the lands where shadows walk. I remember it—gray fog everywhere, and the cries of the dead echoing like they were putting on a play and I was late to the performance."

“I don’t understand,” Denor helpfully interrupted. “What does a play have to do with anything?”

Charan hushed him, but the man had paused, eyes flickering with the weight of that memory, as if it hadn’t been a particularly good proverbial play, either. "But Ghurmain, stubborn old beast that he was, brought me back. Took what was left of my heart—little more than scraps—and replaced it with the heart of Tamet. But make no mistake," Darag added, with a finger raised like he was about to give them a stern talking-to, "it’s his heart, not mine. And when my time is done, he’ll want it back. It’s kept me alive and strong all these years—age and time might as well have forgotten about me. Let people call me a liar if they like. I know the truth."

“What truth?” Charan asked, before Denor could say anything stupid.

Darag leaned forward suddenly, eyes blazing with a fire that should’ve been beyond someone his age. His gnarled fingers clamped onto Charan’s wrist, not unlike a bear trap snapping shut.

“Can you please not break my arm as a demonstration?” Charan requested. “I really need that arm and I’m quite fond of it.”

"Listen!" Darag hissed, his voice dropping to a dangerous level of quiet. "If ever I’m struck down—now, later, whenever—promise me this! You must cut into my chest and take the heart that Ghurmain gave me. It’s still his, you see. As long as it beats inside me, my soul will be chained to this poor sack of bones, even if my head gets squashed flatter than a pancake dropped by a careless cook. A living soul stuck in a rotting body. Do you understand? You must promise me!"

Charan, who’d been watching this display with the air of someone who wasn’t entirely sure if he was in a conversation or a fever dream, nodded. "Very well," he said, throwing a quick glance at Denor, who gave an equally baffled shrug. "Denor and I promise."

“If it means that we get pancakes, I promise.” Denor added unhelpfully, but with no small degree of hope.

At this, old Darag sagged back into his bed, letting out a long, wheezing sigh. "Good," he muttered. "Good. That's all I needed to hear."

“Does that mean the story is over now?”

Darag’s still form indicated that there wouldn’t be any more reminiscing that night.

Denor checked his ears and nostrils. “He’s not dead, is he? Gella? Can you come and check that the old man isn’t dead yet?”

Charan rolled his eyes.

Darag didn’t die that night. Nor the next night. Nor, for that matter, the one after that, leaving everyone involved slightly more confused than relieved. Since it probably would have been better for the old man to move on at this point, but apparently there was a critically important plot element that he needed to stay alive for.

***

“Thank you for taking care of me as I recover from my wounds,” Darag said to Gella one night.

Charan and Denor reappeared with the evening’s catch, and Gella set about cooking it. While she busied herself in the small cooking area, the old man beckoned to the boys to be seated by his bed.

“This isn’t going to be another long and boring story, is it?” Denor asked.

“You two are not invincible,” Darag said in response, his voice steady, calm, yet filled with a weight that made Charan sit straighter. “Just because you cannot die, it doesn’t mean you can’t be defeated. Don’t mistake survival for strength.”

Denor shifted uncomfortably, trying to meet Darag’s gaze but failing. He had already been defeated many times. Charan crossed his arms and glared back. “Then teach us how to win, old man. You keep saying we’re not using our curse right, but you’ve never explained how.”

Darag’s dark eyes glimmered as he raised a hand to his chest. His fingers rested over the spot where his heart made a thrumming sound.

“You think this curse is your power,” Darag said, shaking his head. “But it is only a shackle. Real strength comes from sacred artefacts—artefacts forged by the will of those who sought something greater than themselves, connected to the sacred arts. They embody intent, strength, and purpose, granting their bearers the power to transcend their natural limits.”

Denor blinked, confused as per usual. “You mean like weapons?”

Darag chuckled. “Not just weapons. Some artefacts are tools of war, yes, but others are shields, vessels of knowledge, or even artefacts that protect the spirit. The last artefact in my possession is my heart.”

Denor’s eyes widened, his attention drawn to Darag’s chest. “Your heart… is an artefact?”

Darag slowly lifted his robe, revealing his chest. Instead of the blue scar, a soft glow emanated from the center of his chest, pulsating with a warm, golden light. The shape of a heart, but not one made of tissue—it looked like crystal, with veins of shimmering light running through it.

“This,” Darag explained, “is Tamet’s heart. It grants me life beyond death, just as your curse does. But more than that, it gives me power. Strength to endure battles that should have destroyed me. Wisdom to see paths others would miss. Without this, I would have perished centuries ago.”

Denor stared in awe. "So that's how you've survived all this time?"

“Not merely survived,” Darag corrected. “Grown stronger. Sacred artefacts allow us to ascend, to advance beyond our mortal limitations. They connect us to the deeper forces of the world.”

Denor, ever impatient, leaned forward. “So how do we get one?”

Darag’s eyes narrowed. “You do not ‘get’ a sacred artefact. You either forge it or encounter it. With your will, your purpose, your struggles, you will come across such objects. It is not the object that holds the power, but the intent behind it. Your curse may keep you from dying, but that’s not power—it’s a crutch.”

“Then how do we… encounter one?” Charan asked.

Darag placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders, his voice softening. “First, you must understand what it is you seek. Power is not the goal. Purpose is. Once you find your purpose, once you understand the reason you cannot die, only then will you have the strength to encounter such items, or craft an artefact worthy of your name.”

Denor glanced at Charan, who was glancing right back. The curse kept them alive so they had the opportunity to grow stronger, but it didn’t make them stronger. Not yet.

“So,” Darag continued, reading their thoughts, “train, learn, and seek your purpose. The world is vast, and your journey has only begun. Then, when you are truly ready, your artefact will be waiting to be forged or found.”

“Where do you want us to go?”

“First you must go north to a settlement beyond your understanding. There is a tyrant there called Kirhak. Depose him, then return to me.”

Denor looked at Charan, their curse still hanging over them like a weight.

“I guess we’ve got some work to do,” Denor said quietly.

Charan shrugged. “If it’ll get the old man to train us further, I guess it’s worth doing.”

“I’m old, not deaf,” Darag pointed out.

“And I’m neither,” Gella frowned. “You two can go tromping off on an adventure, I’m staying here and looking after Darag.”

Charan grinned, cracking his knuckles. “About time.”

He got a clip around the ear for that from Gella.