Sorn exhaled, his breath misting before him. The journey had been taxing, the sort of trek that burrowed itself deep into one's legs and lungs. The Fortress was carved from the mountain's heart, and the farther one ventures inward, the less the terrain seemed to belong to men and more to the mountain itself. Here, in what Oden referred to as the outskirts, snow fell thicker, and buildings became scarce.
They had walked for the better part of an hour, always uphill, though the slope had been deliberately gentle—purposeful, no doubt, to stave off the threat of avalanches. With each step upward, the ground beneath them grew quieter, the crunch of their boots swallowed by the dense snow.
Along the way, Oden had been recognized more times than Sorn could count. Men and women of blue hair alike had greeted him warmly, with nods or waves that bespoke a respect rarely given freely in these lands. Their faces softened at the sight of him, though the same could not be said for Sorn. The cloaked figure at Oden's side drew stares—awkward and searching. Though no words were ever exchanged, he could feel their questions hanging in the air.
"Rumors travel faster than the wind in these parts," Oden remarked, catching the way Sorn glanced at one of the onlookers. His lips curled into a slight smirk, as if he found the entire ordeal amusing. "But don't worry. They won't say anything to you. Their tongues may wag among themselves, but they don't have any intentions of doing anything to you while I'm around." Sorn noticed Oden pull on his sleeve as he talked. "Those in the outskirts have a healthy respect for the Marauders. We're the only clan that doesn't bow to the nonsense of hereditary talent. To us, a man is worth the sum of his own sweat and skill, not the shadow of his ancestors."
Sorn nodded, though he wasn't sure he fully understood.
"I've come out here before myself," Oden continued, his voice taking on a contemplative edge. "To see if there's any steel among the folk here, anyone with fire in their gut and grit in their hands. We give them a chance to join us, to forge themselves into something greater than a farmer. Not many make the cut, but those who do are welcomed into the interior as a Marauder."
Oden's gaze swept across the horizon, where the snow rose in uneven drifts. "They earn something more honorable. A life where they're not just surviving, but standing. Fighting. Living for something bigger than themselves."
Sorn cast his gaze around the outskirts, taking in the quiet rhythm of life that pulsed through this snowy corner of the Fortress. He struggled to fathom why anyone would willingly abandon such a place. The homes here were humble but sturdy. Families worked together, faces ruddy from the cold and their honest labor. Children chased one another through the snow, their laughter echoing in the still air. It was a life unadorned by excess, yet it seemed rich in its own way—a wealth measured in warmth.
Oden had explained, during their climb, that there was no rigid class system here, no gilded lords or groveling peasants. If anything, the farmers lived better than the soldiers. "The fields provide in abundance," he had said, "but a soldier's life demands discipline—discipline of the body, the mind, and the stomach. For most of us at least, food is plain, and our lifestyle is dull. Such is the price we must pay if we are to prevail on the Promised Day."
Sorn had nodded at the time, though his thoughts had lingered on the image of well-fed farmers and stoic soldiers, two sides of the same coin in a society built on scarcity and sacrifice. Now, as he watched a father teach his son how to wield a farming scythe, he wondered if perhaps the farmers were the luckier of the two.
"Honor is everything here," Oden had said earlier, his tone firm. "Since you weren't raised as one of us, you wouldn't understand. Your worth isn't measured in coin or comfort—it's in your status, your deeds, and your achievements. That's why the Tournament doesn't offer gold or titles. The prize is the honor itself. For most of us, that's worth dying for. Of course, you're more likely for a position on the Council, but it is not a desirable position to obtain. My uncle often complains of long nights and intense politics. But the honor to us makes the sacrifice more than worth it."
The words still echoed in Sorn's mind. He glanced at Oden now, watching the Marauder pick his way across the snow-covered path with ease, his shoulders relaxed and his expression unreadable. Oden had been patient with Sorn during their journey, answering every question the Outsider posed. He'd explained the Tournament, the traditions, the values of his people. Sorn had begun to comprehend, but the ideologies presented to him continued to feel alien.
What puzzled Sorn most of all, though, was Oden himself. The Marauder spoke of honor with the reverence of a priest speaking of a god, but his voice carried no passion. When the subject of the Tournament came up, there was no fervor in his tone. He spoke of his people's values as if reciting a hymn he had long since ceased to believe in.
"What about you?" Sorn asked suddenly, breaking the silence that had fallen between them. "Do you really care about honor?"
Oden stopped in his tracks, turning to face Sorn with a wry smile. His blue eyes glittered like sharp shards of ice. "Careful, Sorn. You're starting to sound like you think you know me." He chuckled softly, but there was an edge to it. "For this assumption however, you are correct. Honor means nothing to me. I have my own goals, and they don't need a stage or envious onlookers."
He didn't elaborate, and Sorn decided not to press him. Instead, they continued their climb, the path narrowing as it wound deeper into the outskirts. The air grew colder, and the snow thickened beneath their boots.
Eventually, a strange building loomed ahead, its frosted walls catching the pale sunlight and scattering it in fleeting patterns across the snow. Its height was modest, dwarfed by buildings such as the Goblet and the Royal Palace. However, the presence of this building was undeniable. Its walls were adorned with intricate designs, lines twisting and curling like a frozen flame. Every mark seemed deliberate, the labor of a hundred hands. The "Frost Archives", Oden called it.
Ahead, giant twin doors of stone barred their way. They bore no handles or hinges. If there was a way to enter, Sorn could not discern it.
"How typical of him," Oden muttered. It was unclear whether he spoke to Sorn or himself. "He doesn't even bother leaving this place anymore. I warned him about burying himself too deeply in old parchment."
Oden turned and gave Sorn a knowing look. "Stand back."
Sorn hesitated, unsure of what was to come, but obeyed, retreating several steps to give the Marauder room. Oden stood before the doors, his shoulders set, his breath coming slow and steady. For a moment, he simply stared at the unyielding stone.
Then, without warning, Oden charged. He hurled himself at the doors, lowering his shoulder as he collided with the frosted stone. The impact echoed through the air. A crack resounded, and the massive doors shuddered before swinging open with a groan, their weight dragging against the frozen threshold.
Oden sprawled momentarily on the ground, but he rose quickly, brushing snow from his cloak as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. His face split into a grin as he caught sight of Sorn's wide-eyed expression.
"After you," Oden said, bowing slightly and sweeping an arm toward the darkened interior beyond.
The interior of the Frost Archives was a cathedral of knowledge. Towering shelves of ice rose from floor to ceiling, their sheer height dizzying. They were arranged with military precision, six in total, creating long aisles that stretched into shadowed recesses.
Sorn turned slowly, his breath visible in the chill air as he tried to take it all in.
"Impressive, isn't it?" Oden said with a smirk, watching Sorn's awestruck expression. "There's no other place like this, not in all the Fortress."
Sorn's brow furrowed as he turned to Oden. "What exactly are we doing here?"
Oden sighed, his smirk fading as his eyes scanned the dim expanse of the Archives. "We're here to rouse a ghost from its lair," he muttered. Then, louder: "Nothing really fazes that old geezer."
Without further explanation, Oden stepped into an open space in the center of the Archives. He raised one hand to the cold, high air, and frost began to form around his fingers. The frost thickened, crackling as it grew, shaping itself into the form of a massive hammer. Oden hefted it with ease, the weight of it seeming inconsequential in his grasp.
"Oi, Qian!" Oden bellowed, his voice booming off the vaulted ceiling. "You'd best show yourself, or one of these bookshelves is coming down!"
A shrill, piercing voice responded, echoing from somewhere above. "ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT! Put that blasted thing away before you break something, you reckless beast!"
Sorn looked up, following the sound of the voice, and spotted a figure perched on a balcony that overlooked the room. Before he could make out much detail, the figure leaped from the high ledge, landing with a surprising grace that belied his apparent age. The man straightened, brushing frost from his cloak, and approached Oden and Sorn.
The newcomer was ancient, his face lined with deep creases and his blue hair displaying streaks of gray. Yet there was a wiry strength to him, his posture straight, his movements spry. In one hand, he clutched a thick, heavy book, holding it aloft like a shield warding off a charging bull.
"Darn brute boy," the man grumbled, his voice scratchy but forceful. "You dare interrupt my precious, precious reading time? This had better be worth it, or I'll have you mucking out my goat pens and weeding my garden for a fortnight!"
Oden grinned broadly, ignoring the man's scolding as he stepped forward and threw his arms around him, the hammer fading from existence the moment he had caught sight of the old man. The smaller man squawked in protest as Oden nearly lifted him off his feet in a bone-crushing embrace.
"Missed you, old goat," Oden said, laughter rumbling in his chest. "What's it been now? Three years?"
"Three years too short," Qian muttered, wriggling free from Oden's grip and straightening his cloak with great dignity
Qian's sharp eyes landed on Sorn for the first time. "And who," he demanded, his voice laced with suspicion, "is this you've brought to my threshold, Oden?"
Oden, as if reminded of Sorn's presence for the first time since their entrance, turned with a grin and, without ceremony, yanked the boy's cloak from his shoulders. The hood fell away, revealing Sorn fully to the flickering light of the Archive.
Qian's reaction was instant and dramatic. He staggered back as if struck, his mouth agape in a theatrical gasp. Recovering quickly, he conjured a slim rod of ice in his hand and began prodding Sorn with the unyielding tip, his face a study of shock and wonder. "It cannot be! What is this creature you've dragged into my domain?"
"Remind you of anything?" Oden asked, his tone laden with amusement.
Qian squinted, pacing a step closer to Sorn as he scrutinized him. "Black hair, black eyes," he murmured. "Certainly no kin to the Frostborn. A stranger to our kind, then. But where, boy, did you spring from?"
Sorn hesitated, feeling the old man's questions pry at something deep inside him. He was somewhat tired of this feeling. "The sky," he said finally, his voice flat.
Qian's eyes lit with intrigue, though Sorn could not decide if it was genuine or mocking. "A skyfall!" the old man exclaimed, his tone veering toward delighted incredulity. "A tale worthy of an epic, surely. And yet you seem remarkably ordinary."
"Not ordinary enough for the Council's liking," Oden interjected. "The Dancing Blade brought him before them. It was by miracle that I managed to secure him a place among the Marauders."
"And the Council let him live?" Qian's surprise seemed unfeigned, his tone tinged with dark humor. "A skyborn boy? Unmarked by an element? Hah! It's a wonder they didn't plant a spear through his heart on the spot."
Sorn's lips twisted in a bitter smile. "They almost did," he muttered under his breath, the memory of Varian's spearhead flashing vividly in his mind.
Qian laughed dryly, the sound raspy. "And now you stand before me, boy," he said, his sharp gaze boring into Sorn. "No previous Prophecy foretells of your arrival. Yet I wager the next Prophecy will not stay silent on the matter. You are an enigma the skies themselves will answer for."
Oden gave Sorn a sidelong glance, his expression tinged with disappointment. He had hoped that Qian would have had more answers. "If anyone in this Fortress knows what to make of you, it's this man," he said grimly.
Qian preened at the praise, his gnarled hands clasping behind his back as he straightened. "That is an irrefutable truth," he declared, his voice dripping with self-satisfaction. "There is no mind in this Fortress more attuned to the weave of history, no keeper of secrets more learned than I."
Sorn raised an eyebrow, but Qian continued unabated, his voice growing somber. "Once, long ago, I was one of the 'Loreweavers', a clan whose sole purpose was the pursuit, preservation, and safeguarding of knowledge. For centuries, we gathered truths, the whispers of the Prophecies, the mysteries of the word itself. But power fears truth, and the Council declared us a threat. Spears were raised against us, and the Loreweavers retaliated. My kin were hunted, our Archives burned, our histories scattered to the winds. Now, I am the last."
Oden let out a sharp, humorless snort. "If there's one thing those order-loving bastards excel at, it's massacres."
Qian sighed deeply, his gaze softening as it roamed lovingly over the towering shelves that filled his sanctuary. "The Archives before this were far grander, vaults of thought and wonder, scattered in the interior. When the Council declared us heretics, most were razed to ash. This one—this humble keep—was built in secret, carved stone by stone by the last remnants of my people, when I was but a child. Our more compliant elders bargained with the Council to preserve it, submitting to their suffocating decrees."
Sorn's curiosity overcame his earlier unease. "What sort of decrees?"
A mirthless smile crept across Qian's lips. "Decrees, boy? Chains. I am to collect but not inquire, to preserve but not share. And now, even speaking with the likes of you is a trespass. Were the Council to know of this conversation–" He trailed off, leaving his sentence unfinished but obvious.
"I see." Sorn shifted his weight uncomfortably, guilt flickering in his chest. There was something about Qian's earnestness that stirred a quiet respect in the boy. Though the old man's initial prying had irked him, he now felt an understanding of the loneliness etched into Qian's every word.
Oden broke the silence. "Qian isn't just forbidden from spreading knowledge. They've made sure he can't seek it either. His life is confined to this cold mausoleum, tending to secrets that no one else is allowed to hear."
Sorn frowned, his thoughts turning. "What does the Council fear from knowledge?"
Qian gave a sardonic chuckle, the sound like the cracking of dry wood. "They fear what power always fears, questions. Questions are the chisels that bring empires down. They worry one might pry into things best left buried."
"They're trying to hide something," Sorn murmured, his voice low as he came to this realization.
Oden's lips curved into a wolfish grin. "You're catching on quick, Outsider."
The implication hung heavy in the air. Sorn's mind churned, connecting threads that felt tenuous. The Council's hostility, their rigid control. And most relevant, he recalled Crystal's words from their time in the cave, as she boldly revealed what she believed the Council to be hiding.
"The Sacrifice is a lie."
His eyes flickered toward Oden, uncertainty clouding his gaze. Should he share what Crystal had confided? If Oden already knew, admitting it might make him appear foolish. If he didn't, then Sorn feared the weight of the revelation might not belong to him to give. Crystal had taken a risk sharing it; it was not his place to gamble with her trust.
Instead, he chose silence. The Marauder's motivations remained shrouded, almost as murky as the Council's own. Oden had risked much to shield him, but Sorn suspected that protection could be as much about power as it was about principle.