They gathered their strength, magic flaring around them. Yacha's spear blazed with fire and thunder, Ursang's sword pulsed with the power of earth, Eline's sword glowed with the shimmer of water, and Speira's blades whistled with wind. They charged, converging on the beast from all sides in a final, desperate attempt.
Yacha struck first, driving his spear toward the horn again. This time, his magic flared brighter, and with a surge of power, he managed to crack the surface of the icy horn. Ursang followed, slamming his sword into the creature's leg with all his might, forcing the beast to stumble.
Speira moved in a blur, her wind-infused blades slicing into its sides, creating a flurry of shallow wounds. Eline, her water magic now enhanced, aimed at the creature's other leg, freezing it momentarily in place.
For the first time, the beast faltered, letting out a thunderous roar of fury. But even then, their combined efforts only scratched the surface of its immense power. The white fur was stained with only a few drops of blood, barely enough to show they'd done any real damage.
The creature retaliated with a deafening roar, its ice magic flaring once more. The ground around them froze solid, and sharp pillars of ice erupted beneath their feet, forcing them to jump back. Panting, bruised, and out of options, they realized that while they had managed to injure it, they were still outmatched.
"We need to retreat!" Yacha called out, frustration and fatigue evident in his voice.
The beast wouldn't let them escape, its massive claws ripping through the air as it charged relentlessly. Yacha tried to parry with his spear, but the force of the beast's blows pushed him back with every strike, his arms growing numb.
Ursang swung his sword with everything he had, but his hits barely left a mark on the creature's iron-hard hide, the weight of exhaustion settling into his bones. Eline summoned torrents of water to freeze its legs, but the beast shattered her efforts with a single shake, ice shards spraying into the air.
Speira moved with lightning speed, her blades striking rapidly, but they only grazed the surface of the thick fur, her wind magic unable to penetrate deeper. The air around them grew colder, and the beast's ice spears flew faster, forcing them to constantly dodge.
Their magic reserves were dwindling, and every block and parry came slower than the last. Yacha took a direct hit from one of the beast's claws, his armor cracking as he was thrown to the ground. Ursang covered him, taking another blow to the shoulder, his sword knocked from his grip as he staggered.
Eline's breathing became ragged, her focus slipping as her water magic faltered under the beast's overpowering ice aura. Speira, panting and wounded, circled back for another attack, but the beast's red eyes locked onto her, sensing their desperation, and it moved in for the kill.
The beast roared, raising its colossal claws for a final, crushing strike, when suddenly, a figure shot out from the dense forest, soaring through the air with impossible speed. A man, wild and imposing, descended like a storm.
His long red hair, tinged with brown, whipped in the wind, the sides shaved clean and marked with strange, untold symbols. He wore only animal-skin boots and trousers, his upper body bare, shredded with muscle and scattered scars. Tattoos snaked across his flesh, ancient and powerful, with two broad shields strapped to his forearms, reflecting the moonlight.
With a primal scream, he swung his twin axes down, and in one swift, brutal motion, severed the monster's head clean from its body. The massive white-furred beast fell with a thunderous crash, lifeless before it even hit the ground.
"Stop running away, you ice polar freak!" he bellowed.
His voice echoing through the silent forest, his presence radiating a raw, overwhelming power that made the air around him feel heavy.
As the blood-soaked axes hung at his sides, the man slowly turned, his piercing gaze falling on the four young soldiers, who could only stare in disbelief. Fatigue and exhaustion overtook them, and Yacha and Ursang collapsed to their knees. But before they blacked out, a realization hit them like a final blow: this man, standing above them like a force of nature, was the very target of their mission—Sigurd. Then, darkness claimed them.
Yacha slowly regained consciousness, blinking against the dim light filtering through the fabric of the carriage's tent-like cover. The soft, rhythmic thud of the beasts pulling the carriage filled the silence, mingling with the low hum of a man murmuring a song.
Yacha glanced around, his eyes landing on his companions. They were still out, wrapped in blankets made from monster leather.
Hisgaze drifted further, and then he saw it, the head of the great ice beast, the creature that had nearly killed them. Its mouth hung open, frozen in its final snarl, but the horn, once so menacing, was cleanly severed.
Fear surged through yacha at the sight, and before he could stop myself, he let out a startled scream.
The man driving the carriage turned at the sound, his blue eyes locking on Yachas. His voice, steady and warm, cut through the haze of yacha panic.
"Ah, you're awake, young lad."
Yacha took in his appearance, ginger hair, shaved on the sides with the top tied back in a ponytail, freckles dotting his weathered face, and muscles chiseled like stone, the body of a man shaped by countless battles. A round shield rested against his back, and despite the cold air surrounding us, his presence felt oddly warm, like a protective aura yacha had never known.
Not even Hadleigh, who had been like a father figure to him in some ways, had this kind of warmth.
Yacha panicked for a moment, recognizing who this man was. Sigurd. Our target. But the thought of fighting him seemed laughable, there was no way we could stand against someone like him. His aura, calm and powerful, radiated strength. Yet, for reasons yacha couldn't understand, it also felt…safe.
"Don't worry, lad," he said again, glancing at the beast's severed head. "That monster is long gone."
Yacha hesitated, then approached, sitting beside him on the wooden bench at the front of the carriage. After a few moments, he lowered my head.
"Thank you for saving us, sir…?"
"Sigurd Normen, lad. Just Sigurd."
"Thank you, Sigurd. I'm in your debt."
He chuckled softly, waving it off as if saving them from certain death was just another day in his life.
"Ah, no need for that. A Nordic man must help those in need."
Yacha followed his gaze forward, his eyes widening at the sight of the creatures pulling the carriage. Two wolves with six legs, their massive forms gliding smoothly over the terrain. He blinked in disbelief. Magical beasts, tamed and obedient.
Sigurd must have noticed the shock on yacha's face because he let out a hearty laugh.
"Those aren't your usual horses, are they?"
"Ye-yes, sir," yacha stammered, embarrassed by his obvious surprise.
"Stop calling me 'sir.' Just Sigurd is enough," he corrected with a grin.
Yacha nodded, grateful for the casual nature of his tone. A moment later, he handed yacha a piece of bread, urging him to eat. His stomach growled in response, and he accepted it, tearing into the bread like a starved lizard.
"How long have I been out?" Yacha asked between bites, still trying to piece together how long they had been unconscious.
He shrugged.
"Not long, just a couple of hours. We're close to my home now. You'll spend the night there, get some rest. You all look like you could use it." He paused, his eyes narrowing just slightly, a new expression crossing his face.
"But I can tell you're on the run."
Yacha froze. Sigurd gentle smile had shifted, replaced by something sharper, something knowing. My mind raced—there was no way they could fight him, but being captured was not an option either. Yacha couldn't let them be handed over to the Albions.
Sensing his panic, Sigurd chuckled again, this time softer.
"Relax, kid. I'm not turning you in. You've got nothing to fear from me."
Yacha nodded slowly, the tension easing just a bit from my shoulders. Sigurd was telling the truth, and yacha could feel it in his tone, in the way he carried himself. Still, yacha kept his guard up.
They continued to talk as the carriage rolled on, and yacha fed him half-truths, saying they had come from a distant land, and that they had lost their way. He didn't press for details, though, content to fill the conversation with stories of his own.
He spoke of Nordic warriors, of their gods and battles, of legends passed down through the ages. His voice, rough but filled with passion, painted vivid images of mighty battles and feats of strength. Yacha , his eyes lighting up with joy at sigurd's tales.
Yacha mind racing with curiosity. Were they true? Or just the exaggerated myths of an old soldier? It didn't matter. At that moment, yacha admired the way sigurd spoke, the way he brought these stories to life, and for the first time in a long while, yacha felt a strange kind of peace.