The chill of the night air sank deep into his bones as he stepped away from the hearth’s fading warmth. He closed the cottage door with a soft creak, peering back inside one last time. Torin carried his mother to bed, her frail form swallowed by the shadows, her face paler than he’d ever seen it. The hearth’s glow flickered weakly, casting long, dancing shadows across the rough-hewn walls, a cruel reminder of the home he was leaving behind. His heart clenched at the sight, his mother had never looked so fragile, her once-strong hands now shaken, her breath shallow and weak. A tear glistened in his eye, freezing on his cheek in the biting cold. He wiped it away with a trembling hand, his throat tight with unspoken fears.
“She’s strong. We can do this, but I have to hurry!” he muttered, his voice barely audible over the howling wind that rattled the cottage’s shutters. His footsteps crunched on the frost-dusted path as he turned away, the weight of her life pressing heavily on his shoulders. Snow began to fall, gentle flakes catching the moonlight, but each one stung like a tiny blade against his skin. He shivered, pulling his tattered tunic tighter around him, though it did little to fend off the icy grip of the night. Lumara stretched before him, its houses glowing faintly with the warmth of hearths and lanterns, a remarkable contrast to the darkness he was about to face.
Inside their cottage, the air had been thick with the scent of herbs and woodsmoke, a comforting embrace that lingered in his memory. The walls, lined with shelves of dried plants and his mother’s meticulously labeled jars, spoke of her life’s work as a healer. Now, those same hands that had brewed potions to mend broken bones and soothe fevers lay weak and helpless. His chest tightened as he recalled her quiet strength, the way she’d smiled through her exhaustion to reassure him. How long has she been hiding this? The question gnawed at him, a relentless ache that fueled his resolve.
As he trekked through the village, his mind churned with memories and fears. She’s my world. I can’t lose her. His mother’s sickness was a shadow that had crept in unnoticed, stealing her vitality day by day. Her smile had always been his anchor, but now it felt like a mask, concealing the pain she’d suffered in silence. He glanced into the homes of his neighbors, their windows aglow with the soft light of family hearths. Inside, he glimpsed snippets of life, Old Mara stirring a pot over the fire, her grandchildren giggling as they played with a wooden toy, the baker’s wife mending a torn cloak, her husband snoring softly by the fire. Laughter muffled through the walls, children curling up in warm beds. His chest ached with longing. I should be there, with them, safe and warm. But there was no time for wishes, only for what must be done.
The market square lay silent ahead, its stalls shuttered under a thin layer of snow. His breath clouded in the frigid air as he forced himself to focus. “I need to pass Old Cobb’s house and head into the forest,” he whispered, his voice casting small clouds in the chill night. “There’s a path that takes me higher. How far up is this flower, anyway?” He’d never ventured onto Frosthelm at night, and the children’s tales of red-eyed demons lurking in the shadows crept into his thoughts unbidden. His heart pounded, but he pushed the fear aside. No time for that. Ma needs me.
Halfway through the village, he paused near the central oak tree, its gnarled branches stretching toward the sky like skeletal fingers. A faint clinking sound caught his ear, and he turned to see a small, glowing rune etched into the tree’s trunk, a spiral of silver light that pulsed faintly, then faded. The boy frowned, stepping closer. It wasn’t one of Lumara’s usual wards, the kind his mother had taught him to recognize. This felt foreign, like a whisper of something older, darker. He thought of the hooded traveler who’d passed through days before, their face hidden beneath a tattered cloak. Had they left this mark? A chill unrelated to the cold ran down his spine, but he shook it off. Focus. The flower. That’s what matters.
At the edge of the village, the last cottages faded behind him, their warm lights dimming as the tall, skeletal trees of Frosthelm’s forest loomed closer. He paused, his breath catching as he looked back. The village was a cluster of golden specks now, swallowed by the encroaching darkness. A gust of wind swept through, snow swirling around him, and he shivered violently, his fingers already numb. It’s so cold… He glanced at the journal tucked in his pack, its leather cover worn but sturdy, a quiet comfort against the uncertainty ahead. Maybe Ma left hints on where to find it. I’ll check if I need to.
He took a deep breath, the icy air burning his lungs, and stepped into the forest. The trees closed in around him, their branches wavering like outstretched arms in the wind. Moonlight dimmed under the dense canopy, and the cold deepened, frost crackling beneath his boots. The path to Frosthelm stretched out before him like a frozen, unforgiving gauntlet.
Each breath escaped his lips as a fleeting wisp of mist, dissolving into the biting air, while his boots crunched against the frost with every step. The cold was a living thing, sinking its talons into his exposed skin, and the wind shrieked through the pines, a mournful, relentless cry that made his nerves jangle. He tugged his tunic tighter around his shoulders, a futile gesture against the chill that now claimed his fingers and toes, yet he pressed forward, spurred by the his mother’s request and the reassuring heft of her journal in his pack.
Her voice, faint and fading, echoed in his thoughts. “You can do this, Aki.” The words were a lifeline, but the forest stretched endlessly around him, a maze of darkness pierced only by the occasional rustle or snap of a twig. He’d grown up on tales of this place, whispers of spectral beasts and wanderers lost forever in its depths, and now, each sound fueled a growing unease. They’re just stories, he told himself, clutching the straps of his pack, but his palms grew sweaty as shadows danced upon the edges of his vision.
The trail steepened, forcing him to claw his way over frosted stones and duck beneath branches sagging under heavy snow. His thighs ached, each breath a shallow, stinging rasp as the climb thinned the air. Ahead, a massive pine had toppled across the path, its trunk glistening with ice. He gritted his teeth and hoisted himself over, his palms sliding on the frozen bark, snow tumbling into his boots as he landed awkwardly on the other side. The powder was deeper now, swallowing his legs to the knees. He’d never faced Frosthelm in the dead of night, never felt its full fury, and the mountain seemed to revel in his struggle, hurling gusts that stung his face like needles.
A flicker of light caught his eye, another silver rune carved into a jagged stone, its faint pulse a ghostly shimmer in the gloom. It mirrored the one he’d seen in the village, but its meaning eluded him, and the worsening storm left no room for curiosity. Snow fell in thick curtains, obfuscating the trail, and a shiver of fear raced down his spine. He couldn’t stop, not now. I have to keep going, he thought, shoving the panic aside as he trudged onward. Pa’ always said.. You’re not cold, you’re just uncomfortable, and you have to live with that. He was beginning to get numb all over, despite reminding himself he was “just uncomfortable”.
With each step his body trembled, the cold now snaking through his damp clothes, turning his sweat to ice. The faint spark of his magic (never strong to begin with) was a mere ember now, barely warming his stiff hands. I’m not ready for this, he admitted silently. No lantern to pierce the dark, no cloak to shield him, no weapon beyond the small knife at his belt. The forest pressed closer, its silence broken by eerie sounds that played tricks upon his mind. A rustling in the brush, a distant howl that made him flinch. The tales of demons didn’t seem so far-fetched now, and he couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes tracking his every move.
Desperation gnawed at him, and when he spotted a narrow shortcut, a rocky slope cutting through the trees, he seized it without hesitation. The incline was treacherous, its stones glazed with ice, but he was too frantic to care. Halfway through, his foot slipped, and he plummeted, a shout ripping from his throat as he scrabbled at the snow. His body crashed against a sharp outcrop, pain flaring in his leg, and he landed hard in a drift below. Dazed, he pushed himself up, hissing as he probed his shin, a shallow cut oozed blood, staining the snow, and his ankle pulsed with a dull, twisting ache. “Stupid,” he rasped, his voice cracking as tears froze on his lashes. “I’m so stupid!”
Still pouting, he opened his pack, the cold wet seeping into his clothes and bones, making him shiver harder. He pulled out his mother’s journal, its leather cover worn but precious, and angled it under the faint moonlight, careful not to let the snow dampen the pages. His fingers trembled as he flipped to a page marked with her neat handwriting, a herblore entry on the Lightspire Bloom. “Found near the Lady’s shrine, the Lightspire blooms only for a fleeting hour after dusk, its petals glowing with her divine light,” she’d written. “When the glow fades, the flower closes until the next day, unharvestable. To gather, hum the Song of Dawn, three notes, soft and pure, while cutting the stem at its base with a single, steady stroke. Disturb its roots, and the light will die.” Akilliz’s heart sank. Dusk had long passed, had he missed his chance? The snow fell harder, burying him in its icy embrace, and for a moment, he wanted to give up, to let the cold take him.
But a faint glow caught his eye through the storm, a soft, golden light emanating from a small stone shrine just up the path. It was a statue of Aurelia herself, her elven features carved with serene beauty, her hands outstretched as if watching over the mountain. A cryptic inscription at its base read, “She who lights the peaks sees all.” Akilliz crawled toward it, his injured leg dragging, his body screaming with every movement, the storm thickening around him, snow swirling in blinding gusts. He collapsed against the shrine, the stone warm beneath his touch, a comforting heat that seeped into his frozen hands. He embraced it, clinging to the statue as if it was his ma’ , and cried, tears mixing with the snow. “Aurelia, please… help me save her,” he whispered through chattering teeth. “I can’t lose her. I’ll do anything.”
As if in answer, the storm stood still for a moment, the wind dying, the snow parting like a curtain. He sniffled, opening his eyes, and there, nestled in a crevice between two boulders near the shrine, glowed a cluster of flowers, their petals a radiant white, pulsing softly like a heartbeat. The Lightspire Bloom, its light still shining, a miracle in the darkness. “It’s here!” Akilliz breathed, a spark of hope igniting in his chest. He pushed himself to his feet, wincing as pain shot through his leg, and limped toward the flowers, humming the Song of Dawn, three soft, pure notes, his voice shaky but determined. With a single, steady stroke of his knife, he cut the stem at its base, careful not to disturb the roots, and the Bloom’s glow held steady as he tucked it into his pack.
Slowly gathering himself up for the trek back, he prepared to leave, however Frosthelm had other ideas. A low, guttural growl rumbled from the shadows, freezing him in place. His eyes opened wide as he turned, dagger trembling in his grip. From the swirling snow emerged a massive wolf, its fur black as pitch, eyes burning with a sickly yellow light. The air around it shimmered with an unnatural haze, the same eerie glow he’d seen in the rune’s vision. Shadow touched, he realized, his throat tightening. The wolf’s lips peeled back, revealing fangs like shards of bone, and its growl deepened, a sound that echoed through the frozen night.
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He backed away, injured leg dragging. I can’t outrun it. I can’t fight it. The wolf stalked closer, its claws scraping the ice, each step deliberate, predatory. Desperation clawed at him as he fumbled in his pack, his numb fingers brushing his mother’s journal. There has to be something! A spell, a ward? He flipped to a page marked with her neat handwriting: “For beasts of shadow, sage and nettle, sparked with flame, may ward them off, yet beware the cost.”
The wolf lunged, jaws snapping, and Akilliz dove to the side, his leg buckling as he hit the snow. Pain seared through him, but he scrambled up, clutching a handful of sage and nettle. The wolf circled, its eyes locked on him, foam dripping from it’s mouth. His breath was coming in panicked bursts as he crushed the herbs into the snow, muttering the spell she’d taught him. “Burn!” he shouted, his voice raw, hurling the mixture at the beast.
The herbs sparked, a weak burst of flame flaring in the air, and the wolf snarled, its fur singed but unyielding. The haze around it thickened, the yellow light in its eyes flaring brighter. It’s not enough, he thought, terror flooding him. The wolf prowled closer, its growl a promise of violence, and he knew he had only moments before it struck again.
Desperate, he recalled the shrine’s warmth, the statue’s serene gaze. Aurelia, help me. He turned to the statue, his hand brushing its base, and felt a faint hum beneath his fingers—a pulse of magic, ancient and steady. The shrine’s power. He didn’t know if it would work, but he had no other choice. He pressed his palm against the stone, humming the three-note spell his mother had used for healing, his voice shaky but determined.
The statue’s glow intensified, a golden light spilling from its hands, and the wolf hissed like a snake, its growl morphing into something unrecognizable. Akilliz’s heart leapt as it backed away from the light, It’s real! I have to hold on! The spell drained him immediately, his vision blurring, his legs trembling. I can’t hold it. Thankfully, the wolf had vanished from his sight, but he heard it howling loudly out of his view.
The golden light faded completely as it retreated into the statue, he sank to his knees, breathing quickly, and he stared at the spot where the wolf had vanished, his mind reeling. I did it. But how? The spell had scared the wolf, giving him a moment’s reprieve. He had to get out of here, and quick. He was euphoric in this moment, for it was his own hand that had driven it off. He touched the statue again, feeling its warmth, and whispered a shaky thanks to Aurelia, though he wasn’t sure if she could hear him.
As he turned to leave, a faint crack echoed from the shrine. He froze, his heart skipping a beat. A hairline fracture ran tore through the statue’s arm. Oh no, did I break it? Shame and uncertainty tore through him, had his spell damaged the shrine? Or was it the wolf’s doing? He didn’t know, but the thought of angering Aurelia, of disrupting something sacred, filled him with dread.
Another distant howl broke the silence, followed by another, closer this time. More wolves. His blood ran cold. He had to move, the shrine’s protection was fading, and danger was coming. He clutched his pack, the Blooms secure, and began trudging his way back home.
As he lurched, a soft hum pierced the storm’s din, a melodic echo like a far-off chime. He paused, breath held, the sound tugging at his senses from the shrine’s direction. Aurelia? Uncertain but desperate, he turned toward it, limping through the snow, hope warring with dread in his troubled mind. Was it wise to investigate? The wolves would soon be upon him, and he would stand no chance against them.
He trusted his intuition, as he drew nearer the hum swelled, the air growing faintly warmer, the storm softening. Trees parted to reveal the shrine once more, its light dim and faltering, the crack in the statue’s arm now a stark fracture. Guilt twisted in his gut. Definitely my doing. Yet there was no time for remorse, the hum emanated not from the statue but from an alcove cloaked in snow-heavy vines.
He swept the vines aside, uncovering a stone archway etched with faded symbols. A tunnel stretched beyond, its walls worn smooth, steeped in the musty scent of earth and old magic. Was this a way down? His hand hovered over the carvings, village rumors of hidden paths whispering in his memory. The wolves’ howls sharpened, their shadows flickering closer through the trees.
With no alternative, he stepped inside. The tunnel sloped gently downward, the air warming with each step, the storm’s clamor fading to a murmur. His leg throbbed, but the smooth stone eased his stride. Who carved this place? he wondered, tracing the ancient markings. They must have been from a time before Lumara, he could feel their faint magic thrumming beneath his touch.
The passage widened into a chamber, its walls lined with shelves of brittle tomes and empty vials, relics of a forgotten age. A pedestal rose at the center, etched with a map of Frosthelm, the shrine marked by a golden sigil. His breath caught, this was a healer’s refuge, a sanctuary of wisdom. Ma would cherish this, he thought, a pang of longing piercing his heart.
Time pressed against him. The map revealed a web of tunnels, one threading straight to Lumara. A shortcut. He memorized the turns, then noticed a wooden chest in an alcove, its lid cracked open. Inside lay a vial of shimmering liquid, its scent of apples and herbs warm and inviting. He sipped it cautiously, a heat spreading through him, dulling the ache in his leg.
Renewed, he hastened through the tunnels, the carvings guiding his path. The journey was swift, and soon he emerged at Frosthelm’s base, Lumara’s faint lights piercing the snow. I’m here! Relief surged, bright and fleeting, but the storm’s chill deepened, his mother’s time slipping away.
He staggered into the village, body trembling from exhaustion. The cottages stood dark, hearths cold, villagers lost to sleep. Only the smithy glowed, its windows alive with candlelight. He shoved the door open, snow spilling from his shoulders. “Ma, I’ve got it!” he shouted, thrusting the Lightspire Bloom aloft, its radiance cutting through the dimness.
His father looked up from her bedside, his face carved with sorrow. She lay motionless, her breathing faint, skin pale as frost, yet a weak smile flickered as she coughed. “Aki, your leg,” she murmured, voice a thread, eyes clouded with worry. “Torin, mend it.”
“We’ll see to it, love,” his father replied, voice quaking yet steady, gaze fixed on the Bloom. “How does he brew it?” Too frail to answer, she gestured feebly toward the journal, her strength ebbing.
He sank beside her, flipping the journal to the page. The recipe demanded Lightspire Bloom, moondew, thyme, and honey, boiled precisely while chanting Aurelia’s song unbroken. His hands shook as he assembled the tools: a small pot, a pestle, the smithy’s hearth. He crushed the Bloom, its glow dimming with each grind, sprinkled thyme, measured moondew drop by drop, and added a bead of honey. Lighting the hearth, he whispered, “Up,” but his magic wavered, the flame stuttering, his energy drained from the ordeal.
The mixture simmered, gray and murky. He sang Aurelia’s song, a melody of lilting notes his mother had taught him, but his voice cracked, desperation seeping through. She shook her head, coughing faintly, the potion wrong. It’s not working. He adjusted the heat, stirred again, the liquid turning brown, still impure. His chest tightened, fear clawing at him as he tried once more, the Bloom nearly spent.
Sweat beaded on his brow, his song faltering as he fought to steady it, pouring his heart into the chant. The brew shimmered, a pale white, but not the pure brilliance it required. She watched him, eyes dimming, and shook her head one last time. “Aki,” she whispered, voice breaking, “you tried so hard..”
His father’s hand gripped his shoulder, firm yet trembling. “Lad, it’s enough.” But it wasn’t. Tears streamed down his face as he set the failed potion aside, the room heavy with the scent of herbs and despair. She reached for him, her frail fingers brushing his cheek, and he leaned into her touch, sobbing.
The family gathered close, his father cradling her other hand, their breaths mingling in the stillness. Her gaze shifted between them, love shining through her fading light. “My brave boy, my steady heart,” she said softly, her voice a final gift. Her hand slipped from his, her chest stilled, and the silence swallowed them.
He buried his face in her shoulder, his cries raw and unrestrained, while his father’s quiet sobs joined his own. The smithy’s warmth faded, the candles guttering low, casting long shadows over her peaceful form. They held her, unwilling to let go, their grief a shared shroud as the night deepened, the Bloom’s glow a witness to their loss.
The silence in the smithy was suffocating, broken only by the crackle of the dying hearth and the soft, choked sobs of Akilliz and his father. His mother lay still between them, her hand limp in his grasp, her warmth already fading. He pressed his forehead to her knuckles, his tears soaking into her skin, body trembling with the weight of his grief. I failed her. I wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t strong enough. The thought echoed in his mind, a relentless accusation that twisted his heart.
His father’s broad shoulders shook as he knelt beside the bed, his calloused hands cradling her face, his voice a broken whisper. “By Aurelia, why? Why now?” He stroked her hair, his fingers tangling in the gray-streaked strands, his eyes red and swollen. “She was the light of this village, of our lives. It happened so fast. So fast. But why, Aurelia?”
Akilliz couldn’t answer. The pain was too raw, too overwhelming. He’d climbed Frosthelm, faced the wolves, harvested the Bloom, all for naught. The potion had failed, and now she was gone. He squeezed her hand tighter, as if he could will her back to life, but the stillness was absolute. She’s really gone.
A soft hum filled the air, a gentle resonance that seemed to emanate from the walls themselves. Akilliz lifted his head, his tear streaked face turning toward the sound. The hearth’s glow flickered, casting long shadows across the room, and for a moment, he thought he saw a figure in the flames, a woman with elven features, her eyes glowing with divine light. The Godess? But the vision faded as quickly as it came, leaving only the crackle of the fire and the ache in his chest.
His father rose slowly, his movements heavy with sorrow. “We need to prepare her,” he said, his voice hoarse. “The village will want to say…goodbye.” He turned to his son, his eyes filled with a father’s pain. “Lad, I know this is hard, but we have to be strong. For her.”
Akilliz nodded, though his heart felt like it was shattering. He released his mother’s hand, his fingers lingering on her skin, and stood on shaky legs. “I’ll… I’ll get her things,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. He moved to the shelf where a small, leather-bound notebook lay, his mother’s personal notes, separate from the journal he’d taken. As he picked it up, a small slip of parchment fell from between the pages, fluttering to the floor.
He bent to retrieve it, his brow furrowing. The parchment was old, its edges frayed, and it bore her handwriting, a note he’d never seen before. “To my brave Aki, if you’re reading this, I’m gone. But know this: the light never truly fades. Look to the old paths, to the whispers of the mountain. Frosthelm holds more than Blooms, it holds answers. Trust in Aurelia, and in yourself. I love you, Aki, always.”
His breath caught, tears falling anew. She knew. She knew she was dying. The realization hit him like a blow. She left me a clue, and I never found it. He clutched the parchment to his chest, a deep sorrow seeping into his bones.
In the distance a howl echoed through the night, followed by a strange, rhythmic hum that seemed to vibrate in the air. He frowned, stepping to the window. The storm had eased, but the sky was alight with an eerie glow, the moonlight on Frosthelm’s peak glistening like a distant star. The mountain’s awake, he thought, a chill running down his spine.
His father’s face was pale,, his grip tightening on Akilliz’s shoulder. “We need rest, lad. We’ll be up early, give her the farewell she deserves. We’ll face this together, I… I still can’t believe she’s gone.”
Akilliz’s throat tightened, sadness and love swelling in his chest. “I’ll try, pa. I.. I just cant,” he whimpered, his voice breaking. He glanced back at his mother’s still form, her face peaceful in the candlelight. I’ll make sure this never happens again, ma’. I’ll learn how to make that potion, I’ll learn how to make potions that can save people.
The night stretched on, the village stirring with the dawn’s first light, but for Akilliz, the path forward was clear. The cold truth had claimed his mother, the sorrow deep within his chest, yet it had sparked something. The desire to heal, and to find the knowledge he so desperately yearned for.
