Sample chapters

Year 693, Third New Memory, the First Age of Elementalfolk 

The Forgotten Isle of Celstria, Eastern Itharia 

15th Winter of the Destined Silver Cub 

Snow fell, burying the dead and dammed alike. 

Frozen blood crunched under Monur’s boots as he paced along the watchtower’s edge. The blizzard roared, its icy winds crashing against the ancient stone like a beast denied its prey, but the ranger stood his watch, numb to its fury. Numb to its claws, raking his face raw, numb its fangs gnawing at his wolfskin cloak—a mantle bought with blood.  

Below him, the Iron Mountains rose against the darkness like the spine of some fallen colossal, their peaks vanishing into storm clouds that devoured the light of the seven moons. Only shadows prowled the night now, hungry howling things that drew ever closer. Through gaps in the tempest, he glimpsed Bergrun Skurdur, the great Dwarven city of iron and stone. Its walls gleamed dull copper in the dying light, like rust on an old blade.  

Home. The word tasted bitter of ash.  

His frost-rimed gauntlets clenched around his ranger’s brooch until the leather wept. Like the cloak across his shoulders, it had been bought with blood—and blood would always have its due.  

Their blood. My debt. Before the dawn breaks, I’ll pay what’s owed. Every. Last. Drop. 

He stopped and watched the endless dance of snowflakes spiralling down to blanket the world bone-white. Each one perfect, pristine, unsullied by guilt or regret. Gods below, what peace that must be, he thought, to be without the ghosts scarring your soul black. He closed his eyes, breathing in the frigid air.  

His gaze fell to where his rangers lay dead upon their pyre. Blood had frozen black beneath them, frost rimming sightless eyes like tears of ice. Cloak brooches gleamed dully on still chests, beside crossbows and axes that would never again taste battle. Their Örtht runestones—once crackling with ironblood magic—lay cold and lifeless, their magic fled with their last breaths. 

With trembling hands, Monür reached for his own runestone, drawing in the last dregs of power from the dead. His fingers tingled as the ironblood trickled through his veins, grey light flickering behind his eyes like distant lightning. 

 “Norgür,” he whispered, “Segürth.” His father had taught him to speak the names of the dead—to remember, to shoulder their weight. But words changed nothing. They were gone now, lives snuffed out like torches in the dark.  

And torches they would become in death—sparks for their final beacon. 

His cracked lips bled as he whispered the ancient Dwarven words of passage: ”Yö fïrm dühn’ütho. Yö fïrm tühntur.” You lived. You live on. 

Why wasn’t it me? With trembling fingers, he struck flint to steel. Let go 

Flames rose dancing in the wind, devouring the wood, licking at their bodies. The stench of burning flesh clawed at his nose—sweet and terrible, a smell no man should know so well. His gut roiled, but he didn’t turn away.  He owed them this much at least—to witness their final passage. 

When the worst of the flames had passed, he reached into the fire to claim their brooches, iron searing his palms. He should have felt pain. Should have screamed. But an icy numbness had stolen even that small mercy. 

Pitiful old man. You can’t even let go. 

He tugged at his braided beard, willing his hands to steady. His father’s voice echoed as it always did: A leader’s duty is to protect his own. But he failed. They followed me, trusted me, and I led them straight to Death’s Door. 

Let go… 

But he couldn’t. Not yet. Not while there was Grimnör, the silver foundling boy—still a chance to set something right in this world gone wrong. 

The signal pyre threw sparks skyward like lost souls seeking heaven. Black sprites—no larger than snowflakes—flitted through the smoke, servants of the Reaper of Souls. Only those who’d taken life could see them, a burden Monür had carried through his century of years.  Yet the Reaper’s touch still chilled him, its grip tightening, waiting for him to surrender to its caress. 

His gaze drifted to the stone giant below—a teracore, the mountain-folk called them. Once a peaceful mountain creature, it too had met death, the Reaper its final acquaintance. Now it lay still, snow piling over lifeless rock. 

He’d waited long enough. Only the wind and distant howls answered his call. He left his men to their passage and descended the watchtower, snow crunching underfoot. 

Below, crimson snow—once white—told the true tale of the night. A pack of wolves lay scattered and still, eyes glazed, fur matted with frozen blood. The rangers’ hounds had died as they’d lived—loyal to the last. Dark streaks of gore painted nearby trees, trunks splintered and scarred by the savagery of the fight. The air hung thick with the reek of iron and death, tinged by the subtle afterglow of spent sorcery. 

He knelt beside a direwolf, wrenching his father’s dagger from its skull. Once, these slopes had been home. Now, they were graves—dead memories buried in ice. And I a haunted soul stumbling through them…If only the Reaper has his fill for the night.  

But ever since Grimnör had come into his care, the Reaper’s shadow had drawn closer, more impatient, more hungry. He thought of the child’s wide, innocent eyes, yet somehow too knowing. Was the boy a curse? 

Movement flickered between snowbanks—too swift for sight, but real enough to raise the hairs on his neck. Monür, the hunter, had become the hunted. He held his breath, staring into the storm’s heart. 

The Beast of Night. Was it real, or just a phantom, a nightmare born of a broken, weary mind? He couldn’t tell anymore, couldn’t trust his senses. Not since the dreams had started. Not since the whispers had begun. 

It watches. Waits. How long before it catches me? How long before it reaches the boy? 

The storm stilled an unnatural quiet draping over the mountainside. No howls. No wind. Just silence—heavy, suffocating silence. In that breathless pause between heartbeats, the very mountains stilled, as if the Beast of Night itself sensed something ancient stirring in the dark. 

Monür shook off the creeping dread, his gaze drawn to the slopes below. Still no signal fires. Blessed mountains, let this cursed night end. Kaldr’s squad should have arrived by now. His heart pounded against his ribs. If the direwolves— 

They live on, a voice cold, ancient, slithered into his thoughts. 

”Who’s there?” Monür spun, crossbow raised, quarrel ready to fly. ”Show yourself!” 

Only the wind answered. 

Then, a sound—faint at first—like the buzzing of distant insects. Monür strained his ears, doubting his senses. No. Impossible. I must be going mad. 

You are sane enough, ranger,’ the voice spoke again. 

His pulse quickened. ”Who haunts my mind?” His eyes darted through the swirling snow. ”Come out, coward!” 

From the blizzard, a giant cicada emerged, its wings thrumming with alien light. It settled on his crossbow like a dream made flesh. 

Monür’s breath hitched. What in the abyss— 

Before he could react, a figure materialized from the storm—a wraith cloaked in white, walking with a staff of twisted wood. Fetishes of a strange pinkish metal glittered on its raven-black beard. 

Monür froze as the stranger’s presence pressed down on him like a mountain’s weight, squeezing the breath from his lungs. He raised his crossbow to the figure’s chest. “Stay back!” 

The stranger’s gaze lingered on the cicada, dismissing Monür’s weapon as if it were beneath notice. 

”Stay back, damn you!” 

The stranger halted, offering a smile. 

In the dying firelight, Monür saw the truth of what stood before him. The figure towered above him, twice his height, white skin etched with shifting tattoos dark as pitch. His bare feet hovered above virgin snow, leaving no trace of his passing. Power radiated from him like heat from forge-fire 

Gods below, he’s floating! Monür’s fingers whitened on the trigger, but something deeper than fear held him back. 

The stranger’s thin lips curled in a deeper smile, his head tilted as if listening to something beyond the ranger’s senses. 

Monür’s fingers tingled as he grasped the Örtht stone, feeling its dying pulse. The fight with the direwolves had drained him; what little power he’d drawn from the fallen was trickling away like water through cupped hands. His ironblood growing perilously thin. If this turns ugly… I need something left… 

The stranger’s eyes found his, ancient and knowing. ”My condolences, mortal. Your men met their fate with honour—” 

”Don’t you dare speak of them!” Monür snarled, grief turning to sudden fury. ”They died because of me, not for some damned fate!” 

Mortal. The word burrowed into his mind like a splinter of ice. 

”Grief blinds you, Dwarf,” the stranger spoke, ”it wraps your mind in shadows, masking truth with lies. I am no enemy, only another wanderer caught in fate’s web. Tell me, what would your father think, seeing you now?” 

Monür stiffened. Da… my thoughts… how does he know? He studied the stranger with new eyes. What manner of being is this? Neither Dwarven nor Wind-folk. Not Human either… 

Riddles, riddles, master Dwarf, a different voice sang in his head, young and wild with barely contained madness.  

The runestone trembled. Magic reacts to magic. ”Get out of my head!” Monür roared. 

”Lower your weapon, ranger,” the elder stranger said. ”Trust is rare—best given sparingly, but tonight make an exception.” 

Monür’s grip whitened on the crossbow. ”Trust? I trust names, not riddles. Speak whoever you are!” 

”Your father taught you well. Trust is earned, not given. But so is respect. And you’ve yet to earn mine.” 

”Enough games!” Monür’s face flushed. ”I am Monür, son of Ronür, ranger of King Kvaldr of Bergrun Skurdur. Out with your name, or I send you to death’s door!” 

”I have walked through that door many times, mortal, and it has never held me.”‘ His piercing eyes met Monür’s, as if burdened by countless centuries of life and death. ”Who I am matters less than what I have to—” 

Monür’s finger tightened on the trigger. ”I warned you, damn it!” 

A laugh echoed inside Monür’s skull. Ah, this will be delightful.’ 

He fired. 

The string snapped, the bolt shrieked through the storm—then halted, frozen mid-air, a breath from the stranger’s chest, magic crystallizing along its shaft. 

A wave of ancient power slammed into Monür, driving him back. Blinding light burst from the stranger, searing through the darkness as the bolt fell into the snow. 

The stranger’s two eyes—and a third, open on his brow—burst alight under  Tattoos writhed across his pale flesh, pulsing like a living thing.  

The cicada’s wings thrummed to a crescendo, rattling Monür’s bones. His grip slackened; the crossbow slipped from his hand. Staggering back, half-blind, he raised an arm against the light. ”What… Who…?” 

”Stand down, Monür,” the elder commanded, still hovering slightly off the ground. ”You have a purpose, whether you know it or not.” 

Monür shook his head, forcing his stance wide, knees bent, battle-ready. His veins pulsed faintly with ironblood, the Örtht stone at his chest glowing with fading light. He gripped his axe, his eyes aflame with grey. ”I won’t beg! If the abyss wants me, it better be ready to fight!” 

He swung the axe. The Örtht flared sputtering sparks as the blade sliced through the blizzard. 

But the stranger’s staff moved faster.  

Wood met iron with a deafening crack. The shock ran up Monür’s arms like lightning, his fingers going numb, his teeth rattling. 

With a flick of the wrist, the stranger disarmed him, sending the axe spinning into a nearby spruce with a sickening thud. 

Monür stumbled back, in shock. 

The tattoos on the stranger’s skin shifted, glowing brighter as the cicada’s wings beat in time with a rising hum. Smoky tendrils of luminescent energy connected the insect to the elder, the air between them rippling with power. 

”You think you are the first to try?” the stranger asked. “You think yourself worthy to defeat one such as I? I have lived your lifetime a thousandfold.” He gripped the staff in both hands. “This has killed Gods.” 

Monür took a shaky breath, hearing the rush of ironblood in his ears. Let go. 

His veins glowed faintly, but his strength was fading, ironblood nearly spent. He gripped the Örtht runestone tighter, drawing out what little power remained. A thin trickle of blood ran from his nose. Let go! 

Then the ancient presence suddenly doubled and a dragonfly buzzed past his face, its wings brushing his cheek, leaving a faint trail of shimmering dust. 

”Enough of your tricks!” Monür snarled, the energy rushing from his veins.  

The iron blast exploded in a violent arc towards the elder. Sparks flew as his magic met the stranger’s shield—an invisible wall of force. The blast shattered, scattering sparks into the air like dying embers.  

Pain flared behind Monür’s eyes—a sharp, burning warning. Not enough. Not enough! 

The runestone flew from Monür’s harness behind him. He spun around, deafened by the thundering of his heart. 

His breath hitched as he faced a new figure—a younger similar man in a white hood. 

”Stubborn as goats, you Dwarves!” the newcomer said, tossing the runestone at Monür’s feet. ”Dwarven magic! Oh, what joy!” 

Monür’s gaze dropped to the runestone, now powerless, faded. He’d have to rely on nothing but his own strength if he wished to survive. 

The younger figure threw back his hood, revealing a pale face twisted in a cruel smile. His eyes—no, not eyes, but blackened, empty sockets—stared through Monür. 

Blinded, yet he sees… What manner of gods walk our lands? Forefathers protect me… 

The newcomer danced around with unnatural speed.  ”Ah, brother! Here I thought this night would be dreary as dust! But oh, what fun we shall have!” 

Monür tried to speak, to shout, but no words came. 

The younger man grinned. ”Not much of a conversationalist, is he? The truest sense of tragedy!” 

”Al’ Mír,” the elder said. ”Restrain yourself.” 

Monür’s eyes darted between them, his limbs refusing to obey. 

Al’ Mír’s grin widened. ”Restrain myself? Discipline, caution, prudence—pah! Chains on the heart, weights on the soul. Loosen up, dear brother of mine!” 

Monür’s mind raced. He needed a plan. Anything.  

His hand found the hilt of his father’s dagger. The last weapon. The last hope. He gripped it tight, its familiar weight grounding him. Steel your heart, son. When all else fails… stand firm. 

With a wordless cry, he lunged at the newcomer. 

But Al’ Mír blocked the blow with ease, pushing him back. ”A final stand, is it? Brave… but oh, so deliciously foolish!” 

”Damn it all!” Monür roared, charging again.  

Al’ Mír was faster than thought. He sidestepped, ending up behind Monür in a heartbeat, his movements leaving faint afterimages behind him. ”Come now, master ranger, is this all you’ve got? What would your father say?” 

Another strike. 

Al’ Mír leaned into the attack, catching the blade with his hand. He flicked the dagger from Monür’s grasp, spinning it before tossing it back. ”Oh, we must keep this lively, mustn’t we? Otherwise, what’s the point of fun?” 

Monür charged again but before he could reach Al’ Mír his feet left the snow, as he was lifted up, his boots ablaze with light. 

”Enough,” the elder’s voice cut through the chaos. 

Al’ Mír sighed. ”Oh brother, you’re no fun! Let him dance, let him stumble!”  He released his invisible grip on Monur. 

Monür fell into the snow, his body trembling. 

The elder stepped forward. ”Bravery, master Dwarf, is no cure for foolishness. Foolishness has killed many over the ages—far more than bravery has ever saved.” 

 After a moment, he opened his eyes.  

The elder’s hand rested on his shoulder, warmth bleeding through the cold. In his other hand, the elder held out Monür’s runestone. 

”You are not my enemy, Monür, son of Ronür,” he said, ”but neither are you free from the chains of fate that bind us all.” 

Monür stayed silent, words choked in his throat. 

 ”You seek a name, so I will give you one. Al’ Vãr. That is what the Brightfather called me. For others, I am the Sage or the Cicada. Take these names if they soothe your curiosity.” 

Monür’s thoughts raced. 

 ”The rest stays locked away. Your father should’ve taught you—some doors are best left unopened.” 

Oh, he did… 

The younger, eyeless figure waved, grinning. ”And I’m Al’ Mír! A Seer a Dragon—if only of the Fly kind!” He snatched Monür’s ale flask, taking a long, exaggerated swig. ”Ah, you must try this, dear brother! Dwarven ale to make even gods weak in the knees,” he chuckled 

Monür stared, trying to make sense of the two. 

Al’ Mír whistled and tossed back his dagger. ”But no need for violence, eh? We’ve no quarrel with you tonight,  ranger, even if you oh-so-wished for it! Fate, after all, has other plans!” 

His mind swirled. Did I seek the end, Da?  Have I become your shadow stumbling through these peaks of death? 

Then he thrust the flask back into Monür’s hands. ”Looks like you need this more than I do,” he said, giggling. 

Monür took a deep draught, the bitter taste grounding him. He tried to speak, but the words crumbled. With a frustrated grunt, he drained the rest and reached for another flask. 

Al’ Vãr smiled as Monür passed it to him. ”Ah, yes, the famed Dwarven hospitality. It takes only a drop of magic to melt those cold, metal hearts. We are strangers no more, are we, Monür?” 

Monür shook his head. ”No, not strangers,” he muttered. 

Al’ Mír laughed. ”And so the threads intertwine! What a delightful dance it is!” 

Al’ Vãr’s three eyes focused on the ranger. ”Now, Monür, ask the right question.” 

Monür searched for words and after a moment nodded. ”Why did you come to me this night? Why… me?” 

”We came because fate willed it. Everything unfolds as it must. Fate is a river, ranger. One cannot fight its current.” 

Monür scoffed. ”Fate? Fate left my men dead in the snow! What does fate have to do with me?” 

Al’ Mír chuckled. ”Nothing but everything, dear ranger! It was fate that led you to find the boy—Grimnör. And it will be fate that brings him back to you.” 

Monür’s eyes widened. ”Grimnör… you know his name. Nothing more can surprise me this cursed night.” 

”Oh, but the night’s not done with you yet! So many more surprises for you and the silver cub! The fates have grander schemes, oh yes!” 

”Curse the fate to the abyss,” Monür said,  his voice cracking. ”Speak what you will and be gone. Have mercy on a broken soul.” 

”As you wish,” Al’ Vãr said. ”This tale begins where another ends. After the Long Night of Void was quelled, the One of Ether cast a tide of forgetfulness upon the lands, sowing peace. But peace is a fickle seed; it blooms but never lasts. The darkness was forgotten, but never gone.” 

One of Ether? Long Night? 

”The people of Celestria dreamed a fleeting peace—one destined to be torn asunder. Now, with the fires of war rekindled, fate’s gaze has turned to this isle once more. From the ashes of a fallen kingdom, a spark was cast upon the shores. A destined child with eyes that hold the light of yore.” 

”Grimnör…” Monür whispered, his gaze drawn to the flickering images in the campfire. 

”Even the smallest spark can ignite a grand fire!” Al’ Mír sang, spinning in the glow. 

A distant howl echoed through the night. ”The beasts have caught your scent, ranger,” Al’ Vãr said. ”Our hourglass runs thin.” 

Feeling the beast’s breath again, Monür turned to them. ”But tell me—what is so special about the boy? Why is he marked by destiny?” 

Al’ Mír’s grin widened. ”The cub is destined to rise above the darkness, but his path is wrought with thorns. Few will believe in him, and fewer still will trust him. Much will be laid bare by which butterfly the fates send to him—the white, the black? Oh, the marvellous possibilities!” 

Monür glanced between them, torn between disbelief and desperation. ”Is this a game to you?” 

Al’ Mír giggled. ”A grand, twisted game indeed! And one we all play, whether we know it or not!” 

Monür stood. ”Al’Vãr, Al’ Mír, what am I to do? Give me something I can grasp!” 

Al’ Mír spun, his voice dropping to a sing-song whisper: 

”Celestria quakes with unseen dread, 

Not earth’s fall, but a curse instead. 

An ember stirs, old as the void, 

Whispers ruin where hope’s destroyed. 

Smoke curls, an ashen sign, 

A shadow rises, Ignis malign. 

But the Silver Cub shatters the burning chain, 

Bringing light where night has reigned. 

In the heart of fire, destiny is sworn— 

From night’s black maw, the dawn is born.” 

The sky above shifted, igniting with a strange, otherworldly light. A fire borealis erupted across the heavens—not the gentle curtains of winter light, but savage streams of red and orange that writhed like serpents of flame, turning snow to blood and night to fire. 

By the inronblood of the elders… a fire borealis in winter? 

”The time is upon us, dear dwarf,” Al’ Vãr said. ”Now gaze into the fire, and witness what the future holds.” 

Monür turned his gaze to the flames of the campfire 

The fire twisted, shapes coalescing in the flames: boulders tumbled from a darkened sky; Bergrun Skurdur’s walls crumbled under unseen force; shadows consumed all. A silver direwolf, eyes burning blue, howling at a blood-red moon. Flickering next, a city, pristine and pale, rose before it too crumbled to ash. Then the sky turned black. Silence. 

”What does it mean?” He looked up, searching for the brothers. 

But they were gone—vanished like a fading dream upon waking. 

”Damn it all to hell!” he snarled, kicking the campfire, sending sparks and ash swirling into the night. 

”The fire shows the future still,” Al’ Mír said in his head. ”The Cub will devourour the raven! Look for the fire and find both what you seek and what seeks you! The moon is for the boy, a present from the both of us to remember who he was and who he will be!” With a laugh, the voice faded. 

”Damn you both to the abyss!” Monür roared, his voice lost to the howling winds. 

The moon? He looked down and caught a glint—a pendant half-buried in snow, a delicate half-moon wrought in silver.  

The silver moon pendant felt heavy in his hand, its surface catching the strange light of the fire borealis above. Another piece in fate’s grand game, though whether it would prove salvation or damnation remained to be seen. Monür tucked it into his cloak.  

Then a howl cut through the stillness—a predator’s cry. The howling grew louder. Closer. 

The pack was coming. 

He scanned the slopes below—a hopeless fool clinging to hope. Then, a faint flicker of light caught his eye—a ranger’s torch, edging closer. 

A weary smile tugged at his cracked lips. ”Well, throw me into the abyss,” he said. ”Not alone after all…” 

Above, the pack of full moons tore through clouds, flooding the slopes with silvery light. He retrieved his axe, his Örtht runestone hanging empty at his side. Time stretched, dragging with each breath, as the torch drew nearer. 

Then finally a voice called out, ”Master Monür! Is that you?” 

Relief washed over him, only to be shattered by rising howls—a chilling chorus turning his blood to ice. 

”Kaldr, get here!” Monür shouted, his voice raw, the howling closing in. 

A figure stumbled through the storm. Not Kaldr. Harl, the Sarungrin mage, pale and wide-eyed. ”Master Monür! Valhurg and Börin—they’re searching for the boy! Grimnör ran!” 

Monür’s heart  droped. He stood there, drowning in the abyss of dread. I failed… 

Before he could grasp Harl’s words, movement caught his eye—the Beast of Night was near, its quarry within reach. 

The direwolves descended. 

His axe snapped up just in time. Teeth flashed, fangs tore into flesh. 

Monür swung, his blade biting into fur and bone, but more closed in. A direwolf lunged, jaws locking onto his arm.  

Let go! 

He was dragged down, crimson blooming over white. His axe, slick with gore, felt like dead weight, yet still, he swung. It was all he had left. 

He grasped the cloak brooches of the fallen. The storm howled, swallowing his scream.  

Let go! 

He let the brooches fall into the snow.  

A blast of grey sorcery ripped through the night. Then another. And another… silver… 

Death’s door yawned wide, inescapable. He felt Reaper’s cold embrace and welcomed it. Everyone close to me dies. Maybe it’s time I stopped running. And joined them.  Da… I’ll see you soon. 

Let go. 

Monür’s vision blurred as another silver flash tore through the night. In that final moment, he knew—the spark had ignited. 

Somewhere, deep within the storm, the flames of destiny roared to life. Grimnör—the spark, so close, yet flickering just out of reach. 

I have failed… failed them all… 

He gripped the silver moon necklace. Borin, brother... protect the boy…the child you always deserved. 

Then the beast’s maw closed shut and darkness swallowed him whole.   

And still, snow fell, burying the dead and dammed alike. 

End of Prologue