I called them in—my command team, the ones I trusted with the worst of it. The rest of the unit spread out, holding the space, checking the perimeter for surprises. The ritual chamber might’ve been secure, but nothing down here ever stayed that way for long. Pip and Erla followed, fresh-faced and sharper than I expected, but I held up a hand before they could step in with the others.

  “You two stay put,” I said. My tone wasn’t angry—it was cold, final. “You’ve done good work. Better than I thought. Doesn’t mean I trust you yet.”

  Erla gave a short, respectful nod. Pip’s ears drooped just slightly, but he didn’t argue. Smart kid. I turned back to my team.

  “All right. Let’s review our orders,” I said, motioning Brann forward.

  He stepped up, thick arms folded, the scar across his nose catching the flicker of Tavor’s mage-light. “Orders were clear,” Brann said. “Recon deep tunnel net. Confirm enemy presence. Sabotage if possible. Pull out before the main force moves in.” He paused, then snorted. “No mention of ancient blood rituals or glacier-bonded leyline anchors.”

  “Figures,” I muttered.

  Tavor stepped forward, rubbing his fingertips together like he could feel the spell residue still clinging to the air. “I can try to fire off a message spell to High Command,” he said. “But with the interference from the ritual, the glacier’s resonance, and the leyline bleed... there’s no guarantee it’ll get through. And I’m fairly certain nothing’s coming back. We’re too deep. Too wrapped up in this mess.”

  I let that settle like dust in a grave. So this was it. A choice. Wait and play good little soldiers, or dive deeper and do what no one else had the spine to do. Brann smiled before I even looked at him.

  “Sergeant Blackthorn,” he said, voice full of something that sounded an awful lot like excitement, “I say we do what we do best—break shit and fuck up the enemy’s plans.” The man had the nerve to grin.

  I grinned back. Couldn’t help it. “Fine,” I said. “So give me options. How do we ruin their whole day?”

  Tavor tapped his rune-stone to fire off the message spell, just in case. A long shot. Maybe someone topside would get a flicker of what we were doing before we all vanished into the ice. Maybe not. Either way, I gave the word: we move forward. We do what the Ghostwolves do best.

  One by one, the ideas came in. Tavor wanted to disrupt the anchors and reroute the leyline surge—flood it out. Dangerous as hell, but possible. Brann suggested a multi-pronged assault. Hit them all at once. No time to regroup. No time to reinforce. Classic ghost-op tactics. And Maren—quiet, grim-eyed Maren—proposed laying traps at every ritual site so if they tried to reconnect, they’d lose more than blood.

  All solid. All smart. All wrong. Because I already knew what had to be done. And I hated it. This was the part of command that carved out pieces of your soul one breath at a time. Point me at a wall and I’ll go through it. Point me at a monster and I’ll cut it in half. But asking others to bleed for the cause—to send them into hell knowing some won’t come back?

  That was the weight that never left your shoulders.

  “We split the squad,” I said at last.

  The words burned coming out.

  “I’ve got six fire teams. Four go out—each hits one of the remaining sites. You find the ritual chambers, you burn them down. You don’t wait. You don’t hesitate. If it breathes and chants, you silence it.”

  The team around me was quiet now. Listening. Processing.

  “The other two teams—command and Delta—we head for the center. That’s where this all leads. That’s where the one in charge is waiting. If these sites are points on a star, then she’s the eye at the center of it. We shut her down, we end this.”

  I met each of their eyes in turn. Brann. Maren. Tavor. The ones who'd follow me into fire.

  “When you finish your objectives, you move to the center. Fast. If we’re not there yet, wait for us. If we are—bring the storm.”

  No one said a word for a moment. Then Brann nodded once. Tavor pulled out a scroll and started marking the teams, murmuring names and assigning runes. Maren just looked at me.

  “You think we’ll all make it?”

  I didn’t answer. Because I didn’t lie to my people. Instead, I looked at the blade on my belt, then at the map glowing softly on the wall of ice behind us.

  “No,” I said. Then I turned back toward the dark. “But we’ll make sure they don’t either.”

  ****

  We’d gone silent hours ago. Not quiet. Silent. There’s a difference. Quiet is an accident. Silence is a choice. The kind of silence you wear like a second skin, woven through with tension and sweat and the certainty that the wrong breath at the wrong time is the last one you’ll ever take. The teams were long gone now—fanned out across the glacier like blades in a dark deck. Too far for the short-range communication runes to ping. Too deep for anything but faith and training to carry them through. And I trusted my people. You don’t live this long without learning how to pick soldiers like tools: sharp, dependable, and dangerous in the right hands.

  But trusting them didn’t mean I stopped worrying.

  I kept the two rookies close. Not because I didn’t think they could handle themselves—hell, they’d already proven they had teeth. But when things go sideways, it’s easier to have the unblooded where you can see them. Call it instinct. Or maybe guilt, shaped like foresight.

  My eleven remaining Ghostwolves moved with the precision of a whisper through broken glass—dropping roaming sentries with blade or bolt before they even had time to scream. Tavor was guiding us from behind, his eyes always on the rune-scribed parchment that updated our route, his fingers twitching with ward spells and ambient detection glyphs. Brann and Maren took point with me, scouting and sabotaging as we went. The deeper we pushed, the more layered the traps became—and the more runes we laid behind us to remind anyone following that this path was closed.

  When this was over, the whole godsdamn glacier was coming down.

  One ambush cost us a little more effort. Five barbarians, tougher than the rest—gray-skinned, huge, wearing hides and bits of stone like armor. Sentries, probably. Maybe warriors returning from a shift of ritual guarding. They put up a fight. Didn’t matter. We killed them anyway.

  Fast, brutal, clean. Afterwards, Tavor pulled me aside. I could tell by the weight in his eyes that what he was about to say wasn’t going to be good.

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  “There’s memory in the ice,” he whispered. “Old memory. The leyline’s tied to it. I’ve seen this kind of intersection before—rare, unstable, but incredibly powerful. It’s like the glacier remembers… everything.”

  I frowned. “Everything?”

  He nodded. “Blood. Songs. Screams. You name it. The mountain doesn’t forget.”

  I stared past him, into the long curling darkness of the next chamber.

  He continued. “They’re not just drawing magic. The shaman—the real one, the one we haven’t seen yet—she’s binding the glacier’s will to her people. She’s trying to give it a mind. Make it fight.”

  My stomach dropped.

  “A living weapon,” I said flatly.

  He nodded. “Of frost and stone and memory. If she succeeds, the leyline won’t just empower them—it’ll become them. The battlefield tilts instantly. They win before it even starts.”

  “Not if we break it first.”

  That was the one thing I knew better than anyone: how to break a thing. He led me to one of the rune pillars—an obelisk grown right out of the ice. Tall, black-veined, humming with a sickly magic. The glyphs scrawled on it were jagged and dense, heavy with stone-giant script.

  “Anchors,” Tavor muttered. “Each one is a node in the ritual. They’re the points feeding power into the spell.”

  “And if we break them?”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe we destabilize the structure. Maybe we just piss it off.”

  “Well,” I said, cracking my neck, “pissing it off is still more useful than letting it finish.”

  We smashed every one we passed. Axes, runes, charges. Didn’t matter how. Only that they fell. And still we moved. The magical map in my hand glowed faintly—our last tether to the other teams. Three of them were moving, converging back toward the center as ordered. Marks alive, patterns shifting with precision and momentum.

  But the fourth… The fourth hadn’t moved in a while. No changes. No pings. No movement on the map. Just stillness. That was the kind of stillness you don’t ask questions about. You just bury it and keep walking. But I felt it. Deep. Right under the ribs. They were gone. That quiet, secret rage that I keep buried beneath the orders and discipline started to burn again—low and red, like a forge waking up. I fed it what it needed. Faces. Names. The ice. The silence. The dead. Brann glanced over from his position beside the passage ahead. He didn’t need to ask.

  “Time?” he said.

  I nodded.

  “Time,” I echoed.

  I looked over my shoulder at the last of my team, sharp-eyed and blooded.

  “No more waiting. No more sabotage. We press in. We finish this. We find the head of the beast and we cut it clean.”

  Brann grinned. “And if we can’t?”

  “Then we cut until nothing’s left.”

  We moved. The glacier shuddered once beneath our feet—like it knew we were coming. And maybe it did. But I was done playing polite.

  ****

  We found the central chamber the way you find a grave—cold, wide, and waiting. It opened before us like a wound, jagged at the edges and slick with ice that pulsed faintly from the leyline’s breath beneath. The air buzzed like a broken bell, filled with too much pressure and too little mercy. From the shadows where we crouched, you could see it all laid out: more than fifty barbarians, big bastards covered in furs and layered armor stitched from bone and sinew. Their skin carried the slate sheen of stone-giant blood, their eyes all wide with purpose and fanaticism.

  They knew we were coming. Maybe it was the failed squad. Maybe it was the sudden stillness in the outer rings. Maybe it was magic or instinct or just plain spite. But they were braced for a storm.

  So we gave them one. I yanked the squad back, tucked us tight in a frozen alcove just short of the arch. The wind through the fissures moaned like a dying god, but down here, we were all already ghosts.

  “Three shaman,” I whispered, “One of them ancient. She's mine.”

  Brann knelt beside me, face stone-flat and blood-smeared. “We’ve got two teams in com range. Echo and Hound.”

  “Good. We hit hard and fast. Synchronize blitz. No mercy, no speeches. Clean kills.”

  Tavor touched the rune embedded in his bracer. “Messaging now. Counting down from ten.”

  The map glowed dim against his arm—blips converging, two more fireteams circling from opposite flanks, closing in like wolves scenting blood. I watched the symbols pulse. Eight. Seven. Six. It was a beautiful thing when a plan was whole. Too bad they never survive first contact.

  The strike began like a whisper—one of Maren’s knives buried itself in the throat of a sentry near the outer ring. He dropped without sound. But as his blood touched the ice, one of the anchor runes flared. Magic doesn’t wait for explanations. The leyline pulsed like a struck drum. The ice cracked. And the whole glacier shifted, groaning like it was remembering how to scream.

  That was the moment it all went sideways. Barbarians roared and surged like a dam broke behind their ribs. Spells flared to life—heatless blue flames, icy chains, bone charms snapping under boots. We dove straight into it. I dropped the first shaman with a bolt through the sternum. The second took one in the thigh and crumpled. Then I flicked my wrist, and my Smith Weston collapsed with a click like a kiss goodbye.

  Time for the axes.

  They slid into my palms like old friends—weighted perfectly, balanced for cleaving and crushing. Not ceremonial. Not pretty. These were tools. Like me. I charged into the fray, and the world stopped meaning anything but movement and force. The barbarians hit hard—but I hit harder. One came at me with a war hammer the size of a tavern stool. I caught it on the flat of one blade, ducked under, and split his gut open from groin to sternum. Another screamed something in their frostborn tongue and tried to grapple me.

  Wrong choice. I slammed my head into his face and took his knee out with the haft of my right axe. As he fell, I buried the left one in his collarbone and twisted. My team was holding, but barely. Tavor lit up half the chamber with a spell that burned too bright, too fast. I heard him shout something arcane before the backlash hit. His ward failed. A spear caught him under the ribs and drove him to the ice. He dropped hard. No scream. Just silence, as if the mountain had taken his breath and kept it.

  I didn’t stop.

  Brann roared like a madman and went through three barbarians in one sweep, blood slick across his armor. Erla detonated two charges along the ice ridges, dropping half a dozen in a collapse of stone and frost. But the old shaman… she didn’t run. She rose.

  Her chant was low and guttural, pulled from somewhere far beneath language. Leyline frost crawled up her arms, into her chest, through her eyes. Her veins lit up blue and white, her skin cracking and reforming like ice under pressure. Then she changed.

  The glacier responded—stone and ice flowing from the wall, fusing to her body. Armor? No. Not just that. It shaped her, became her. An amalgam of woman, magic, and elemental will. Ten feet tall now, eyes hollow with freezing light, voice like avalanche thunder. She looked down at me across the battlefield, past the bodies of her fallen, and I felt her intention like a spear through the gut.

  She wasn’t trying to win a war. She was trying to end it. Once and for all. I adjusted the grip on my axes, and stepped toward her. If she wanted a war goddess to stand in her way— Well. I was ready to show her one.

  It started as a flicker. Just movement—subtle, practiced. The kind that only catches the eye when you’ve spent your whole life watching the edge of the blade instead of the swing. Erla, my demolition girl the new recruit, was circling the perimeter. That in itself wasn’t strange—she was laying wards, checking collapse points, doing her job. But something about the way she moved… it was too measured. Too clean. Like she was walking a path she'd rehearsed before we ever got here.

  Then I saw Pip. Fast little bastard, all quicksilver and shadows. He slipped behind Brann, quiet as breath. And then—The dagger. A swift arc, one clean line across the throat. Brann stumbled, clutching at the red pouring out of him, eyes wide with something between confusion and betrayal. He fell hard, axe still in hand. Dead before he hit the ice. The scream built in my throat but never made it out. I reached for my comm rune, voice low and tight with fury.

  “Fall back,” I rasped. “All units—retreat and regroup. Now.”

  No questions. No answers. Just orders. But I already knew it might be too late. I looked up—and the world had already begun to change. The last of my team was breaking away, shadows disappearing through side tunnels, blood on their boots and grief in their wake. The chamber emptied like a vein cut too deep. No more plans. No more reinforcements. Just ghosts and dismay.

  And her.

  The shaman—no, the thing she had become—stood at the center of the storm. Stone and ice curled around her limbs, magic coiling through her like lightning trapped in a glacier. Her breath steamed in the frigid air like the last gasp of a world before it froze solid. We were alone now. Just me, my axes, and the towering, ancient force she had become.

  I knew what came next. I wasn’t going to win. Not this time. Not in any story where the gods were keeping score. But I didn’t give a damn about winning. I just wanted to hurt her. To carve the price of betrayal into her stone-plated ribs. To buy time with blood, if that’s what it took. She raised a hand wreathed in leyline frost, her eyes burning blue-white. And I rolled my shoulders, adjusted my grip, and stepped forward into the last fight I’d ever see.The room was empty.

  Except for her.

  And me.