After spending the night in the monastery, Kylen set out the next morning to speak with the Eye of Twilight about Syndra's fate. He secured their agreement to let her stay, assuring him that they would take care of her. The hardest part, however, was the conversation with Syndra herself. She refused to remain in the monastery, insisting on traveling with him. But Kylen couldn't risk her life. The journey ahead was fraught with dangers, and the destination held unknown threats.
Syndra simply wasn't equipped for such hardships. She couldn't endure prolonged exposure to the cold, nor could she warm herself independently. She had no means of protection. Though Kylen wished he could offer her his armor of ice, it was deadly for an ordinary person. The extreme cold would claim her life instantly.
The only viable option was to leave her in the temple, where she could be trained to channel spiritual energy, or to entrust her to the village of Nava. He believed that while he hadn't gained much from this place, it was a fitting refuge for Syndra. There were even children her age here. Kylen doubted they could harm her in his absence, and if they tried, they would learn the power of frost firsthand.
"Listen, Syndra, I'm convinced this will be the last time we part," he said, making yet another attempt to persuade her.
"You're lying again. There will always be some place I can't go or something like that. I'm not weak—I have magic!" she retorted, summoning an orb in an instant.
"That's true," Kylen admitted. "But I've seen enough battles to learn one thing: we're all mortal. Death comes when you least expect it, and even the strongest can't escape it."
"Even you, Master?" she asked.
"I've told you before—I've come close to dying four times in my life. Only miracles saved me," Kylen replied.
"Fine, I'll stay. But you promised me you'd never leave me again," Syndra finally agreed, though reluctantly.
As soon as Kylen finished his business at the monastery, he set out on his journey. His speed was remarkable, the wind whistling past his face. Landscapes blurred by in mere seconds. He didn't hold back his magic, conjuring a small block of ice to freeze the road ahead and propel himself forward. He vowed to master his control over ice further, even dreaming of using it to fly someday.
He reached the north in mere hours and plunged once again into the frozen wastelands of the region. Almost immediately, the silhouette of Lissandra began to form beside him.
"You've come to seek the artifact?" she asked.
"Yes. Where do I begin?" Kylen replied.
"The Dead Wastes are your first destination. You'll know them when you see them. Head northeast," Lissandra instructed.
"What awaits me there?" Kylen asked.
"That's for you to discover. Ha-ha-ha!" she cackled slyly.
Frowning, Kylen pressed onward. These riddles irritated him—why couldn't she just share everything she knew? The entire route he traveled was familiar; he had passed through here many times before. Even his icy markers remained untouched, a testament to how little time had passed since his last journey. In the distance, the mountain range loomed, blocking his path. He moved cautiously, fully aware of the dangers lurking beneath the snow. He stopped forming his ice trail and instead walked at a steady pace, creating small patches of ice beneath his feet to keep from sinking into the deep snow.
The mountains reminded him of home. Jagged peaks jutted out at odd angles, sharp stones protruded from the ice, and an endless blanket of snow covered everything. As he approached the mountain's base, something caught his eye—enormous swords, as large as the mountain itself, embedded into its slopes. Partially buried under snow, they were difficult to identify from afar.
He recalled stories from the Freljord about the "Lake of Dead Gods," where countless colossal blades were driven into the ice. According to legend, these were the weapons of the gods themselves, remnants of their ancient battles. The thought of such omnipotent beings humbled Kylen, reminding him of his own inadequacy. He was still far too weak—unforgivably so.
As he climbed the mountain, he couldn't shake the feeling that this place had once been inhabited. Trails carved into the stone crisscrossed the area, evidence of some past civilization. Soon, he came across an ancient bridge spanning a chasm. Its size was astonishing—far larger than necessary for humans. It made no sense unless it had been used to transport immense cargo. Yet no beast capable of hauling such loads could traverse this terrain.
Reaching the other side, a sense of unease gripped him. He paused, scanning the area, but saw nothing. Even his instincts failed to pinpoint the source of the disturbance. Remaining on guard, Kylen advanced cautiously.
It wasn't long before the snow erupted around him. Massive snow trolls burst from beneath the surface, their alabaster fur blending seamlessly with the icy landscape. Towering over him, three times his size, their hunched forms radiated primal strength. Their gaping maws were lined with sharp, jagged teeth, and crude armor protected their bodies. In their hands, they wielded primitive weapons—unsophisticated, but undeniably dangerous.
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Their camouflage was exceptional, blending perfectly with the snowy environment, and Kylen hadn't detected them until it was too late. These trolls were unbothered by the cold and could remain buried beneath the snow for extended periods.
"Ussa, tu," one of the trolls spoke as it stepped closer to him. Kylen hadn't anticipated they would be intelligent or refrain from attacking immediately. In his homeland, while trolls were known to possess a rudimentary intellect and some form of communication, they were primarily brutal savages bent on destruction. Only their king was considered close to human intelligence.
Raising his hands, Kylen indicated he had no intention of fighting. The trolls seemed to understand the gesture, and following the lead of the one who spoke, the others lowered their weapons.
"Ussa, vela ou ka eil?" the troll repeated.
"Your language is unfamiliar to me," Kylen replied, realizing there was little chance of them understanding him. To convey that he was merely passing through, he gestured with his hands and knelt in the snow. He drew simple shapes, illustrating his path heading northeast.
The troll watched him intently as he sketched and mimed his explanation. It nodded frequently, as if understanding, though its vacant expression suggested otherwise.
"Lusara ti'sonu Zul," the troll said, turning to address its companions. They nodded in agreement.
This was the first time Kylen had encountered creatures speaking a completely foreign language. He had never considered the possibility. While his homeland had various dialects, they all shared common roots, differing mainly in pronunciation and a few unique terms. Trolls, on the other hand, were known for simple phrases like "Eat food," "Hunt," or "Yum-yum." Occasionally, they employed a shamanic language to perform magic, but complex conversations were unheard of.
The troll motioned for him to follow, gesturing with its large hand. Its companions positioned their weapons in front of them, signaling a cautious but non-hostile intent. Before long, they arrived at a massive arched entrance carved into the rock. How long it had taken to create such a structure was impossible to guess, but the effort to carve and smooth such surfaces was undoubtedly immense. Only trolls, with their overwhelming physical strength, could have achieved such a feat.
The tunnel was lit by torches spaced every ten meters. It seemed the trolls had created a village within the mountain, using its natural walls for protection. The passageway was the only entry point, a deliberate defensive design.
Eventually, they reached an imposing set of stone doors held together by ice, a sign that the trolls possessed some form of magic. Guarding the entrance were two trolls significantly larger than their companions, standing at least one and a half times their height. Their fur was darker, their arms unusually long, and they moved on four limbs.
"Ussa, tundi sara Zul," said the troll who had been communicating with Kylen earlier.
"Kuga ra," one of the towering guards replied in a deep, resonant voice. The sound echoed through the chamber, bouncing off the walls several times.
The guards showed no hostility, instead grabbing the massive doors and pushing them open together. The enormous gates groaned as they moved, revealing a bright light that briefly blinded Kylen. As his eyes adjusted, a remarkable sight unfolded before him—a village among the clouds.
Kylen could think of no better way to describe it. Homes had been carved into the rocky cliffs, their interiors glowing with light as trolls bustled about. Deep chasms split the village at various points, spanned by numerous bridges connecting the smaller structures. Kylen watched as a few trolls effortlessly scaled sheer cliff faces, using footholds carved specifically for climbing.
He couldn't help but wonder—what were they hiding from? He refused to believe they had chosen such an inhospitable location without reason. Living here must have been a necessity, born from a lack of better options. Perhaps something had forced their ancestors to build this sanctuary, and the current generation merely upheld their traditions, remaining in this secluded haven.
The trolls led him deeper into the village. Along the way, many stopped what they were doing to stare at him. Every gaze followed him, their curiosity palpable.
After crossing much of the settlement, they arrived at a smaller cliff. At its summit stood a house adorned with various decorations—tribal symbols, talismans, and other ornaments. The trolls began ascending the cliff with ease, demonstrating their technique as they climbed. Once at the top, they turned to watch him expectantly.
Kylen sighed, then planted his foot firmly on the ground. With a surge of power, he propelled himself upward, his body soaring through the air. He landed deftly, crouching briefly to absorb the impact before standing tall. The trolls' astonished expressions were impossible to miss.
"Turu, turu," muttered his guide, clearly impressed, before beckoning him toward the house with a wave of his hand.
The moment Kylen stepped inside, he was struck by a pungent aroma—a mix of herbs, meat, bones, and other unidentifiable scents. Large cauldrons bubbled over fires, filled with mysterious broths.
Among them walked a smaller troll, clearly a shaman by appearance. Bones hung from its belt, a wooden mask covered its face, and pieces of tattered cloth draped its body.
"Zul," said the guide.
The shaman paused from sampling his brews and swiftly turned his attention to the visitors. Almost immediately, he closed the distance to Kylen, his movements quick and deliberate as he began to inspect the newcomer.
"Hu, hu, hu," the shaman repeated, circling Kylen with an air of curiosity.
"Zul, u shutukh par," the escorting troll added, causing the shaman to freeze mid-motion.
"Dead Wastes?" the shaman asked suddenly, his voice rough but the words intelligible.
"Yes, I'm heading there," Kylen replied, catching the meaning despite the troll's broken pronunciation.
"Hu, hu," the shaman nodded solemnly and gestured toward a pile of bones. It was clear he was warning Kylen of the danger awaiting him—death itself.
"I must go. I have no choice," Kylen said firmly.
"Tet-tet," the shaman muttered, shaking his head in disapproval. He hurried away and returned moments later with several pieces of hide, each adorned with crude illustrations.
The drawings were simple but effective. One depicted trolls gathered around a fire, peaceful and content. Another showed the trolls startled and terrified as lightning and fire rained down from the heavens, hinting at a catastrophe. In the next scene, the trolls fled, only to encounter dark, monstrous entities devouring their kin. Finally, they ran once more and found refuge, establishing a settlement. The final image depicted their current village, perched among the cliffs.
"Dead Wastes. Buu," the shaman said, pointing at the last hide, which was filled with depictions of skulls and desolation.
It became clear that the trolls had once lived in those lands but fled after a great calamity. Kylen speculated that the event could have been a divine battle, one that unleashed fire and lightning upon the world.
"Even so, I must go. Thank you for your hospitality, but I can't stay," Kylen said, his voice resolute. To emphasize his intent, he gestured that it was time for him to leave.
"Hu, hu, hu," the shaman sighed, shaking his head before shrugging as if to say, I tried to dissuade you.
"Taruk, go'du," the shaman said, and the escorting troll nodded in acknowledgment.
Kylen found the trolls peculiar. They had welcomed him, gone to great lengths to warn him, yet never displayed aggression. Even the bones scattered around their village were mostly from predators, not humanoid prey. Kylen concluded that these trolls were peaceful by nature—a stark contrast to the feral brutality of the trolls from his homeland. His kin would laugh at the idea of peaceful trolls.
The escort led Kylen to another area. After a short walk, they reached a deep chasm where a bridge once stood. Now, only the remnants of its support beams dangled precariously. The troll pointed toward the far side, indicating Kylen's path forward.
Raising his hands, Kylen conjured a bridge of ice, its pristine surface gleaming as it formed beneath his will. The escorting troll watched in awe, captivated by the spectacle.
Kylen stepped onto the icy structure, crossing the gap with ease. The troll remained behind, watching him with a mixture of reverence and fear, as though dreading whatever lay beyond.
Once he reached the other side, Kylen destroyed the bridge with a flick of his hand, leaving no path back. Ahead of him stood a narrow passage flanked by towering cliffs. At its entrance loomed a wall of ancient, solid ice. Suspended around it were various talismans crafted by the trolls, etched with strange symbols.
Placing his hand on the ice, he felt a slight tingling. His eyes clouded with magic, and his palm began to sink into the surface, followed by the rest of his body. As soon as he passed through the veil and emerged on the other side, he immediately recognized the familiar scent. During battles, when blood flows in streams across the snow, it leaves a distinct odor. And here, it was unmistakably present. The snow was not white but slightly dirty gray, with a hint of red.
"Dead Wastes," Kylen muttered as he saw the same barren landscape ahead of him.
The descent from the mountain was swift, with Kylen creating ice sleds that raced down at incredible speed. Along the way, he encountered no trees or signs of life. His footsteps left imprints in the snow, but when he turned around, he saw nothing—only a few scattered traces behind him.
"You're on the right path," a voice suddenly spoke, and Lysandra appeared beside him.
"What awaits me there?" Kylen asked.
"As I told you, you will find out yourself," the Witch replied.
Kylen had no intention of playing her games. She had claimed that his connection to the elements was far stronger than he realized, so now he would test it himself. Lysandra's silhouette began to waver, and from thousands of kilometers away, she felt what seemed like cold hands tightening around her throat.
"Not bad. You really are gifted," her voice remained steady, and there was no sign of emotion on her face. "Arftekat—it's the Rune Stone. You've probably heard of the Rune Wars. It's been here for a long time, and many have sought its power, but as you can see, none have succeeded. With that power, no god will stand in your way. You need to find it before others do."
"They've caused the deaths of countless people; entire nations have fallen to its destructive force. The world could have shattered into pieces. Is such power worth it?" Kylen asked.
"Isn't that for you to decide?" she replied.
"Yes, but first, did you keep your promise? Have you found my son?" Kylen asked.
"Don't worry, my people are watching over him," Lysandra said.
"How is he?" A few tears welled in Kylen's eyes. The news that his son was still alive and well brought him joy.
"Strong, just like you," she said. Although Kylen had doubts that she might be lying and only claiming she had found him, if that were the case, she would not be able to escape his wrath.
"Alright, I'll find the Rune Stone," Kylen said with unwavering determination as he marched forward.
Watching the warrior's retreating figure, Lissandra's lips curled into a wide, satisfied smile. Just a little longer, and there would be no gods, no Void, no spirits. They would all understand what it meant to be weak. She was merely expediting the inevitable. A moment later, her form dissipated, and she found herself walking the halls of her icy palace. Her destination was a room known only to her, a secret she had kept as a contingency.
Pushing open the heavy door, she stepped inside to find a six-year-old boy playing with small ice figurines. Hearing the creak of the door, he looked up and beamed.
"Auntie Lissandra!" he exclaimed, running to embrace her.
"Oh, Asur," the Witch whispered softly, stroking the child's hair—Kylen's son.
She had taken him in immediately after the clan battles but had chosen not to reveal this to Kylen just yet. Instead, she had been instilling her beliefs in the boy, recognizing the potential of the gift he had inherited from his father. If Kylen failed her, the son would take his place.
"Tell me, how are your studies in magic coming along?" she asked, seating him on her lap.
Excitedly, Asur began recounting his progress, describing how he had mastered all the exercises she had given him. He eagerly demonstrated his skills, conjuring delicate and intricate icy forms. Lissandra's smile was genuine for once, her satisfaction unfeigned. It was true what they said: the children of powerful beings often carried that same greatness in their blood.