The moon was a blade tonight—thin, cold, and just sharp enough to bleed silver across the snow. Perfect weather for a ghost run. We moved through the frostbitten underbrush like a rumor, boots muffled by runes we’d slapped onto our soles back at camp. Brann led the point, axe stowed, short-bladed hook in hand. Tavor was behind him, fingers twitching with ready magic. Erla, our demolition dwarf, had two packs strapped to her back—one filled with enough boom to crack a ridge, the other with what she called just in case. Pip scouted high, his raccoon tail flicking behind him like a signal flag as he scrambled silently along the treeline, looking for sentries, tripwires, or bad luck.

  And me? I was in the center, where I could pivot to any flank. My Smith Weston hand crossbow sat light in my grip, still warm from a recent whisper of violence.

  She was a thing of beauty. Collapsible arms, low-drag profile, fitted perfectly into the thigh holster on my left leg. She fed from a clip of seven—clean, powerful, and gods-blessed efficient. Dwarven precision married to modern design. Every shot released with the barest breath of pressure and hit like a divine punctuation mark.

  I was in love.

  Not the kind that makes you write poetry. The kind that makes you forget you're in danger because you're too busy admiring the craftsmanship. I flicked a glance toward Pip’s signal hand from up in the boughs. One twitch. Left side. Sentry. Brann didn’t even look back. He melted left into the snow, just another shadow among thousands. Five heartbeats later, a crunch—so soft it might’ve been the wind shifting a branch—and then silence again.

  One down.

  We reached the outcropping above the ice tunnel’s entrance ten minutes ahead of schedule. No sign of patrols. No arcane wards. They didn’t think anyone would be foolish or skilled enough to come from this angle. They were wrong.

  “Tavor,” I whispered.

  He stepped forward, chalk in hand. The runes he laid at the tunnel mouth were elegant, restrained—trip-linked to a whisper-thread that only we could trigger, should we need to bring the cave down behind us. Erla followed, laying shaped charges where the stone narrowed. Insurance.

  I crouched near the edge of the tunnel and whispered into the comm glyph on my collar. “All positions. Eyes sharp. Bolts ready. We go in clean, and we go in quiet.”

  “Wouldn’t know how to go in loud,” Brann said, already slipping inside.

  I grinned and followed.

  Inside, the world shifted. The warmth from the surface bled away like a memory, replaced by a windless stillness that clung to the skin. The walls were jagged, carved by centuries of glacier breath and meltwater. The ice reflected light in veins of pale blue and green, like the whole cave had been caught mid-spell. No torches. No chatter. Just the sound of disciplined breath and the soft click of Erla’s boots.

  We moved like a single thought, each of us fitting the flow without words. I spotted movement ahead—two guards in mismatched armor, leaning against the cave wall, half asleep and talking about some card game. I knelt, brought the Smith Weston up, took a slow breath. The first bolt hit the left one just below the eye. The second buried itself in the throat of his friend before he could even choke on surprise.

  They dropped in silence. The Smith Weston hummed gently in my palm, still warm. I kissed the grip and re-holstered her.

  Erla stared at me with one brow cocked. “You’re in love with that thing.”

  “She’s smarter, faster, and more reliable than any man I’ve ever met,” I whispered.

  Brann snorted. “I’ve seen how you clean it. Starting to think you like her more than us.”

  “She doesn’t whine when I give orders,” I said, and swept forward.

  We breached the second chamber without resistance. Tavor dropped a shimmer veil behind us, erasing any footprints in our wake. The deeper we moved, the more I felt it—the hum of something wrong. Not just enemy troops. Not just tactics. There was magic here. Old, bitter magic, stitched into the ice like veins under a corpse’s skin. But that was tomorrow’s problem. Tonight, we moved like silence had learned to kill. And the Smith Weston? She purred in my hand.

  We moved like ink through water—no sound, no trail, no mercy.

  The tunnels stretched out ahead, glistening with a mix of glacier ice and ancient stone, fused together in a way that didn’t feel natural. It wasn’t carved. It wasn’t shaped. It was grown. The walls curled in on themselves, smooth and spiraled, like something old and magical had burrowed through the mountain centuries ago and left its ribs behind.

  I split the squad of thirty-six into fireteams, staggered down different paths, spreading out like veins through a frozen heart. I didn’t need noise. I needed results. So I sent my quietest, my quickest—the trackers and ghost-walkers—with mana-linked parchment bound to one of Tavor’s better tricks. As they moved, the map wrote itself in glowing strokes on the master sheet I carried. Their progress shimmered like slow lightning. Efficient. Elegant. The kind of operation that makes you believe—just for a second—that maybe war can be beautiful.

  The silence spells held. Communication runes pulsed faintly against our chests—soft as a heartbeat—keeping everyone in touch without a whisper. Even the fresh bloods were moving like they belonged.

  Erla—our pint-sized powder keg—was sharper than she looked, all business and no bounce. She had that dwarven stillness, that mountain-born patience. And Pip? Damn if that twitchy little beastkin didn’t move like smoke. One moment he was beside me, next he was forty feet up a frost-covered ledge, ears flicking like a fox on fire.

  They surprised me. That didn’t happen often.

  I posted up in the first guard station we came across—an outcropping of stone and steel built into the tunnel’s curvature like a wart. Small space, poor cover, but a decent vantage. A few shattered bones scattered the floor, frozen clean. Someone had bled here, long enough ago that even the cave forgot. My team fanned out, killing traps, checking wards, putting down sentries before they even had time to gasp. Every now and then a runestone blinked on the map—trap disarmed, path clear, sentinel removed—like the cave itself was offering me status updates.

  But as we pushed deeper, the air began to change. It thickened.

  Not with moisture or cold—though both were there, biting at skin and lungs—but with weight. With pressure. It was like breathing through old stone and heavier secrets. Every exhale stuck in the chest like it had to ask permission to leave. My elven blood stirred first—nothing overt, just a tickle at the edge of my spine. A whisper in the marrow. I’d never had the knack for spells, but the feel of magic? That I knew better than my own heartbeat.

  Something was waking. I turned to Tavor. He felt it too—his eyes were glassy, his fingers twitching near the rune-inscribed scrolls on his belt. He looked like someone listening to a voice they couldn’t quite hear.

  “Talk to me,” I muttered.

  He nodded, swallowed hard, and pressed two fingers to the runestone embedded in his gauntlet. A faint hum spilled out—just enough to activate his detection grid. The symbols on the walls shimmered faintly in his vision. I saw the light catch in his pupils. Cold blue. Deep as time.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “This leyline isn’t dormant,” he whispered. “It’s… alive.”

  “Define alive,” I said, already knowing I wouldn’t like the answer.

  “It’s pulsing. Steady. Like… like a slow heartbeat. It’s not just passing through the mountain—it’s being fed. Something’s stirring it.”

  Brann crouched by the door, blade across his knees, eyes scanning the shadows.

  “This cave,” he muttered, “feels like it’s listening.”

  I didn’t argue. He was right. There was something here. Not just old magic. Not just enemy strategy. This place had weight. History. Hunger.

  I adjusted the grip on my Smith Weston, its solid weight a familiar comfort in my hand. Seven bolts. Dwarven engineered. Sleek, deadly, and compact. It folded clean into my thigh holster and fired smoother than any other weapon I’d ever known. I loved that crossbow more than I’d ever loved most people. And right now, I had a feeling I was going to need her. I glanced back at the glowing map on the parchment. Paths were beginning to converge. The tunnels were narrowing, leading somewhere.

  Something was waiting. And whatever it was… It had started to breathe.

  ****

  It was sometime later—how much, I couldn't say. Down here, time didn’t work like it did under the sun. You lost the sky and you lost the rhythm. There was only ice, blood, breath, and purpose. We were too deep now. The little command post I’d set up was obsolete—dead weight half a mile behind me. Useless. I needed eyes forward, boots forward, me forward. I’d already started drifting ahead of the main body, chasing the pulse of something that didn’t want to be found.

  Then the word came through the runes. A discovery. Ritual site. Not a guess. Not a maybe. Not a possible location. Confirmed. I felt it in my chest before they even finished the report. The shape of this place was all wrong. Bigger than intelligence had suggested. Wider. Older. Like someone had hollowed out the bones of the mountain and filled them with frostbitten secrets.

  I ordered the teams to fall back to secure the access points and seal anything that looked like a door. No one else goes in. No one else goes out. I didn’t need a hundred eyes. I needed the five I trusted. My fire team—my command crew—closed in as I crept forward.

  We hit the first bend, and that’s when I saw it.

  Torchlight flickered like dying stars through a natural ice arch ahead. Beyond it: a chamber carved into the glacier wall, smooth and gleaming, walls so slick with arcane cold they almost reflected what you didn’t want to see. I dropped to a crouch, signaled a halt with two fingers. We spread out across the mouth of the arch, each of us ghost-quiet, breath caught in the throat. I peeked through the crystal edge and saw them.

  Five of them. Barbarians. Big ones. Gray-skinned, muscled like the side of a mountain. Stone-giant blood in them for sure. Their skin looked like it had been chiseled, not born—slate and scars and the occasional crude war tattoo inked with what had to be blood. They were busy, heads down, preparing the ritual components. Bone fetishes. Bloody runes scrawled across frost-covered stone. A massive obsidian totem, still steaming, carved with the crude symbols of Marzanna and Crom Cruach—death and fire, sorrow and war. And at the center of it all, her. A young shamaness.

  Tall, young, terrible in the way storms are terrible. Armor made of hide, bone, and metal so black it looked like burnt snow. Her hair was a thick braid laced with shards of ice and feathers that hadn’t belonged to anything still alive. She was chanting toward a fissure in the ice—where leyline energy seeped upward like mist, glowing with that sickly, beautiful light that only the old gods remembered how to use.

  The air was humming. Everything in me screamed now. I raised my hand and made the signal. We’d go in hard. No negotiations. No mercy. Just steel and silence.

  And I’d lead. Always. I took a breath, leveled my Smith Weston hand crossbow, let the moment crystallize.

  Thwip.

  The first bolt sank into the shamaness’s throat, mid-chant. Her eyes went wide. No scream. No spell. Just blood, thick and black-red, gurgling down her chest as she dropped to her knees like her gods had just called her bluff.

  Thwip.

  Second shot hit one of the brutes through the shoulder before he could grab his weapon. It spun him sideways into the ice wall, where Tavor’s arcane lance took the rest of his face. I flicked my wrist and the Smith Weston collapsed in on itself with a hiss and click, folding tight into my holster. My hands were already moving.

  I drew my axes. My second-best friends.

  Each one forged for my grip, hafts just long enough to ride heavy in my hands without throwing my balance. The blades swept forward, hugging over my knuckles, like brass knuckles mated with a reaper’s scythe. They weren’t made for clean kills.

  They were made for work.

  I charged. One of the barbarians raised a greataxe and roared, stepping into my path. I stepped through him. My left axe hooked his thigh, dropped him to one knee. The right came in under his chin and took his jaw clean off. He didn’t scream. He didn’t have the anatomy for it anymore.

  Brann was already on the second, sliding under a spear swing and jamming a shortblade into the bastard’s gut with a grunt like punctuation. Tavor set another ablaze with a muttered curse and a flick of his ring. Pip leapt from the ice arch and landed on the tallest one’s shoulders, jamming a dagger between neck and spine like he was sewing up an old wound. Erla lobbed a runestone that went off with a pop of force—just enough to knock the last one off his feet before I got to him.

  He tried to raise a shield. I broke his arm with my left axe. Then the right one found his temple. Silence. No war cry. No counterspell. Just blood pooling on sacred frost. The chamber was still humming. But it was the kind of hum you hear after something breaks. I stood in the middle of it all, breathing hard, slick with sweat and red. My blades dripped. My heart did not. I reached down. Picked up the shamaness’s talisman—some twisted thing of bone and obsidian still glowing faintly.

  “Ritual’s dead,” I said into the comm rune. “Site secure. I want all teams converged here in five. We’re not done. Not even close.”

  The leyline beneath us still pulsed. The bodies hadn’t stopped steaming yet. Blood pooled black in the frost, thick and sluggish, already starting to freeze into ugly spiderweb patterns across the smooth ice floor. The obsidian totem still pulsed faintly, its runes guttering like the last coals of a fire that had burned too fast, too hot. The leyline was still there too, humming under my boots like a second heartbeat—low and patient. Waiting. I turned to my team, still breathing hard, blades slick and dripping at my sides.

  “Talk to me,” I said, voice low but sharp as flint. “What the hell was this all about?”

  They moved fast, trained and tight. Fireteam spread out, weapons still drawn, checking corners and dark patches of shadow while the rest of the unit filtered in behind them. Thirty-six strong, all stone-faced and silent. Brann took two squads to secure the tunnels branching out from the chamber. Erla started marking the walls with detonation wards—precise and unforgiving. Pip scrambled up the ice arch for a bird’s-eye, watching for movement deeper in the glacier.

  We made it secure. Or as secure as a place like this gets. Tavor stepped up to me. Tall, wiry, a cloak of arcane residue hanging off him like fog. He looked like he’d just swallowed something that didn’t sit right. He didn’t wait for me to ask again.

  “This wasn’t just a ritual,” he said. “It was a bonding. Something was meant to tether here—between the leyline and the glacier itself. Like… like stitching a living thing to a river of magic and turning it loose.”

  I frowned. “To what end?”

  He shrugged, fingers twitching like they wanted a quill and a scroll. “Can’t say yet. But this wasn’t brute force magic. It was subtle, layered. Ancient. They weren’t trying to blow anything up. They were… weaving.”

  I nodded toward the body of the shamaness, still slumped where I’d dropped her. One hand was still frozen mid-clench around her throat, my bolt protruding from the wound like punctuation.

  “What about her?”

  Tavor barely spared her a glance. “Young. Not unskilled, but inexperienced. The threads she pulled were strong, but they weren’t hers. She was channeling someone else’s design.”

  “Meaning?”

  “She wasn’t the leader,” he said flatly. “She was a spark in someone else’s storm.”

  I crouched beside the corpse. The girl couldn’t have been more than twenty. Tattoos still fresh on her neck, eyes wide even in death. Not fear—awe. Like she’d been seeing something greater than herself in those last moments, and she died convinced it was beautiful.

  “She die for something she believed in?” I asked without looking up.

  “No,” Tavor said. “She died for someone else’s plan. And that’s worse.”

  I stood, wiping my axe on a nearby hide cloak before slipping it back into its holster.

  “So who’s running the show?”

  He hesitated, then took a breath.

  “I’d guess five sites,” he said. “This was one. The feel of it—this was a tip. A spoke. The edge of something designed to pull from five points and direct it inward.”

  He traced a rough star in the air with his finger. Pentagram. Of course.

  “Where’s the center?” I asked.

  “That’s the problem,” he said. “Whoever’s in charge? They’re not just older than this girl. They’re old. Very old. You can taste it in the flavor of the leyline—this kind of flow can’t be handled by someone green. This is practiced magic. Rooted in centuries.”

  My jaw clenched. Cold sweat prickled the back of my neck.

  “This place was a battery,” he continued. “Whoever's behind it, they’re pulling power from the glacier, the leyline, maybe even death itself. Feeding it into something we haven’t seen yet.”

  I looked around the chamber again. The frost. The totem. The runes etched in the walls like veins feeding a heart.

  “So this was just the outer ring,” I muttered.

  Tavor nodded grimly. “The ritual failed because we cut one of the cords. But four might still be pulling.”

  And somewhere, at the center of it all, someone very old was tying the threads. Tight.