The injured leg, crude splint and all, became another part of Kael. The pain was a constant, dull throb, a low hum beneath the roar of the wind. He learned to favor it, shifting his weight, dragging himself forward with newfound, desperate strength. His movements, once clumsy, were now a grotesque, efficient crawl and drag, driven by a will that refused to break.
Elian, sheltered against Kael's chest, was growing. His small body, once a fragile weight, was becoming more substantial. His whimpers were less frequent, replaced by soft snores or the occasional gurgle, oblivious to the constant battle for their next breath. Kael would trace the baby's tiny fingers, a fleeting moment of tenderness in the cold, unyielding vastness of the Northern Mountains.
The mountain range was a monstrous, jagged spine, tearing through the sky. Here, the air was thinner, colder, stinging Kael's throat with every gasping breath. Snow fell in sudden, furious squalls, burying their tracks, obscuring the world in a blinding white. The towering peaks were a maze of deep ravines, perilous ice sheets, and sheer, unforgiving rock faces. Survival here was a constant, active defiance of nature itself.
Kael's single eye scanned relentlessly. He was a creature of pure instinct now, every nerve attuned to the nuances of his environment. He mapped the treacherous terrain in his mind: the precarious ledges, the hidden caves, the frozen streams that might offer a trickle of water beneath the ice. His hearing sharpened, picking up the distant rumble of rockslides, the faint cry of unseen creatures, the whisper of snow shifting on a distant ridge.
Food remained a desperate quest. Kael's methods became more brutal, more efficient. He learned to set crude snares for the agile mountain hares, patiently waiting for hours in the bitter cold. He used his rusted blade to pry open frozen crevices, searching for hibernating insects or the tough, fibrous roots of mountain plants. Every calorie was a victory, a tiny increment of defiance against the gnawing hunger. He chewed the raw meat, the bitter roots, into a soft pulp for Elian, watching his brother swallow before taking his own meager portion.
One frigid dawn, huddled in a shallow rock overhang, Kael detected it. A faint, unfamiliar scent carried on the biting wind. Woodsmoke. Not the acrid, metallic tang of Dirtspire's burning refuse, but the earthy, clean smell of burning pine. It was subtle, almost imperceptible over the howl of the wind, but Kael's honed senses latched onto it.
He crawled to the edge of the overhang. Below, in a distant, sheltered valley nestled deep between two colossal peaks, a wisp of grey smoke curled lazily into the bruised sky. It was too far to see clearly, but the smoke was deliberate. Controlled. Not a wildfire. It was a settlement.
A flicker of cautious curiosity, alien to his usual grim focus, stirred within Kael. He knew the legends of the Northern Mountains, whispered even in Dirtspire. Savage tribes. Barbarian warriors. Vikings. They were feared. Respected. But they were also... alive.
He spent the next few days observing from a distance. He moved higher, finding a vantage point on a desolate ridge, hidden amongst the jagged boulders. He watched.
From this distance, he saw movement. Figures. Tall. Broad-shouldered. They moved with a powerful, confident stride that spoke of mastery over this harsh land. They were fewer than he expected, perhaps twenty or thirty.
They were not Upper Realm elites. No shimmering armor. No crackling arcane signals. Their forms were bundled in thick furs and hides, their movements practical, unadorned by grand gestures. They carried heavy, crude weapons—axes, spears, bows. They were hunters. Warriors. Survivors, like him, but on a grander, more established scale.
He saw them hunt. Not for scraps, but for massive, shaggy beasts that roamed the lower slopes. They worked together, coordinating their movements, driving their prey towards traps Kael hadn't even noticed. Their techniques were ruthless, efficient, without wasted motion. They didn't just kill; they harvested. Every part of the beast was utilized.
He saw them return to their settlement. A cluster of sturdy, timber-framed longhouses, dug partly into the earth for insulation. A central fire pit blazed, its smoke a continuous column against the bleak sky. They gathered, shared food, their voices carrying faintly on the wind, a low murmur of communal life.
This was a different kind of survival. Organized. Deliberate. He had only known the desperate, chaotic scramble of Dirtspire. The cold, calculated methods of the Upper Realms. This was something else. A harsh coexistence with nature.
He noticed particular individuals. A large, grizzled man, his beard woven with bone, who moved with an ancient authority. He seemed to lead the hunts, directing the others with a nod or a gesture. Kael saw the respect in the eyes of the other Vikings when they looked at him. This was likely their chieftain, or a powerful elder.
He also spotted children. Not many. They were bundled in furs, scampering around the longhouses, mimicking the adults, practicing with miniature axes. They were small, but already carried a toughness Kael recognized. One girl, perhaps his own age, moved with a surprising ferocity, even in play. She swung a small, wooden axe with a focused intensity that set her apart.
Kael's stomach rumbled, a sharp ache. He watched as the Vikings prepared their meal, the scent of roasting meat drifting tantalizingly on the wind. His current prey was meager. Lizards and roots.
He felt a pull. A desire for that warmth, that sustenance. But also caution. He was a nameless child from the ashes. He had no tribe. No place. And he trusted no one. His father's death had taught him that.
He knew he could not simply walk into their camp. They would be wary of an outsider, especially one so young, and so solitary. He had no offering. No strength to contribute beyond his mere survival. He needed to learn more. To understand their ways. To find a way to gain what he needed without becoming beholden, without sacrificing his independence.
His objective remained the city. The Frostfang Ravager. The coin. But the Vikings were a temporary resource. A new kind of lesson.
He spent the next weeks observing. Learning their hunting grounds. Their patterns. Their vulnerabilities. He saw how they tracked beasts far larger than himself, how they worked around their weaknesses. He stored every detail in his sharp, young mind.
He was still just a child, but his will was a silent, unyielding force in the desolate landscape. The cold, indifferent peaks were his new classroom. And the distant smoke of the Viking settlement, a complicated, cautious beacon. He was the ghost in the peaks, a silent observer preparing for his next, brutal lesson in survival.