Shattered Eternity: Frigid Destinies

The cold in the Moroz Mountains isn’t just cold. It’s a predator, gnawing at my skin, burrowing into my bones, and whispering doubts with every icy gust.

For all my height, strength, and thick skin—the marks of my Ganyd blood—it’s a battle just to keep moving. Every step feels like defiance against an unseen foe, and let me tell you, the cold doesn’t take well to defiance.

I’m here because of tradition, of course. The kind of ancient, unyielding tradition that expects an eighteen-year-old to haul himself up a mountain in search of visions. What’s worse? It’s not even a choice. You’re Ganyd, you do the quest. You have the visions. You make your ancestors proud. Or at least, that’s the idea.

“Gods, what I wouldn’t give for a hot bowl of stew right now,” I mutter, pulling my cloak tighter around me. The fur of the Iron Bjorn lining it is thick, muting the wind’s sharp bite, but nothing can silence its relentless howl that fills the air like a mourning cry.

The gusts whip at the cliffs, carrying with them the scent of frozen pine and the faintest hint of storms brewing beyond the peaks. The thought of A’Bhean Uasal back in Skalderen, its hearth roaring and its tables laden with food, makes my stomach churn with longing. Mead. Fire Whiskey. Beef and onion stew. Anything but this.

But no, here I am, chasing the flickers of visions that feel more like curses.

The first one hit me months ago during a feast. One moment, I’m laughing with Torma Taecdottir as she recounts one of her ridiculous adventures, and the next, my head’s swimming, my vision blurring until all I can see is a shimmering archway surrounded by snow. When I told Keelia Stiùbhartach about it, she’d fixed me with her cold, calculating stare and said, “It’s time.”

Time for what? Freezing to death? Wandering the wilderness chasing after vague hallucinations? I wanted to argue, but you don’t argue with Keelia when she’s in mission mode. Besides, I knew she was right. You don’t ignore a vision quest. It’s… what we do.

Still, part of me can’t help but think there has to be another way. We’re living in an age where cities are filled with strange machines and even stranger magic. Somewhere out there, someone probably has a cure for whatever’s happening to me. A medicine. A spell. Anything but this.

The terrain grows steeper, my boots crunching through the snow. As the minutes stretch into hours, I spot a ridge up ahead and decide to take a moment’s rest there. My breath escapes in ragged, visible clouds, and every muscle in my body burns with protest.

I drop my pack onto the snow and sit, gazing out over the endless white expanse below. I pause to adjust my spear, the familiar weight of it reassuring in this desolate expanse. The markings on its shaft, carved by my shaman during Sealgair, glint faintly in the pale light—a quiet testament to who I am meant to be.

The wind picks up, howling like a living thing, and I pull my cloak tighter. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I hear my father’s voice. “The cold doesn’t care about your feelings, boy. It doesn’t care about anything.” He wasn’t wrong. The Moroz Mountains are as unforgiving as the stories say. Even with the cloak and furs, the chill seeps into me, biting at my fingers and toes.

I press on, my thoughts wandering back to the feast where it all began. The vision wasn’t just vivid—it was all-consuming. That archway, those swirling symbols... they weren’t just images. They felt alive, like they were calling to me. And now, here I am, answering that call, whether I like it or not.

I’m so caught up in my thoughts that I don’t notice the signs at first. A shift in the air, a prickle at the back of my neck. Then, it hits me—the visions. They return with the force of a charging Iron Bjorn. My knees buckle, and the world tilts.

For a moment, I see it: A sprawling city with gleaming walls of brass, filled with clockwork spires and steam-driven machines. Awe and a strange sense of longing grip me, but beneath it all, there’s a flicker of unease—like the city’s beauty hides something I’m not ready to face. My breath catches as I realize one of the figures walking its streets looks eerily like me. Red hair, scar on the chin, freckles—it’s unmistakable.

The city itself seems to shift in and out of focus, its spires stretching impossibly high, disappearing into clouds of steam. A low, rhythmic hum resonates through the vision, almost as if the city is alive.

Beside the figure, a girl strides confidently, encased in a frame of intricate, moving metal—a marvel both alien and alive. Gears whir faintly at her joints, steam hisses from concealed pipes, and the seams of her massive steel fists glow with an energy that pulses like a heartbeat. I can’t decide if it’s awe-inspiring or terrifying.

The frame shudders slightly with every movement, releasing wisps of white smoke from hidden vents. Her massive steel fists glow faintly at the seams, ready to crush anything in her path. Over one shoulder, she balances a colossal hammer, its head crackling faintly with energy and etched with glowing symbols that pulse like a heartbeat.

Her black hair, streaked with wild splashes of pink and green, falls in jagged layers around a cocky grin. That grin… it’s the kind of expression that says she’s faced the worst the world has to offer and came out laughing. There’s something about her, though—a mix of defiance and camaraderie—that feels like a half-remembered tune I can’t quite place. Like she’s part of a vision only now coming into focus.

To her right, there’s someone else—a blonde girl with cat ears. Yeah, cat ears. And those green eyes of hers? They’re practically glowing, piercing through the vision like they see everything and nothing all at once. She’s holding a curved scimitar, its edge gleaming dangerously, and the way she stands… it’s like every muscle in her body is coiled, ready to spring. I can’t tell if she’d fight me or laugh at me, but either way, she’s impossible to ignore.

And then there’s the witch. You couldn’t miss her if you tried—all fiery red hair and eyes like smoldering coals. She’s got this broom, but not the sweeping-up-dust kind. No, this one’s topped with a glowing ruby that pulses faintly, like it’s alive and daring anyone to get too close. Her outfit’s a mix of elegance and danger, black and red runes shimmering as though they’re alive. She’s every bit as intimidating as the rest of them, but there’s something about her—a quiet strength—that makes you want to trust her. Or maybe that’s just my idiot brain talking.

The four of us are depicted together, united in some unknown purpose. The vision raises more questions than answers, but I’m struck with a sense of purpose. This city—the City of Gears, Altarus—must hold the key to unraveling my destiny.

And then, just as suddenly, the vision fades. But not before my foot slips.

“No, no, no…”

Gravity takes over, and I tumble down the slope, snow and ice tearing at me as I go. When I finally come to a stop, I’m sprawled in a heap, my spear a few feet away, buried in a drift. My body aches, my pride more so.

“Fantastic,” I groan, pushing myself upright. I glance back at the slope I fell from and shake my head. “Not worth it. Definitely not worth it.”

The trek back to Skalderen is long and painful, each step weighed down by exhaustion and frustration. I pass familiar landmarks—a jagged rock formation shaped like a wolf’s head, a frozen stream with ice so clear it reflects the sky. I pause at the stream, kneeling to drink from a patch where the ice has cracked. The cold water shocks my throat, jolting a small measure of life back into me. But each step forward feels heavier, a reminder of how far I’ve come and how little I have to show for it.

By the time the familiar sight of the village comes into view, I’m ready to collapse. Smoke curls lazily in the distance, its black tendrils twisting into the sky. My heart leaps to my throat, and I break into a stumbling run. The sight sets every nerve on edge—Skalderen is under siege.

Smoke. Not the kind from hearth fires, but thick, black, choking smoke rising in ominous plumes. The sound of distant screams carries on the wind, and my heart sinks. I break into a run, every ache in my body forgotten.

Chaos greets me at the gates. Daurenzeur, a creature from nightmares, towers over the village, his massive form oozing with black ichor that drips and hisses as it touches the ground, freezing everything in its path.

His hollow, glowing eyes sweep over Skalderen with an intelligence that chills me more than the frost. His voice, a rasping growl layered with malice, echoes across the ruins. “You thought your heroes could seal me away forever? How fragile your triumphs are, Ganyd.”

But then I see them—children huddled near the square, wide-eyed and crying. Without thinking, I move.

“This way! Hurry!” I shout, waving them toward the forest. My voice cracks, but it’s enough. They follow, stumbling over the icy ground as I guide them to safety. When the last child is across the threshold of the trees, I turn back, gripping my spear tightly.

Torma’s voice rises above the chaos, barking orders to a group of villagers trying to mount a defense. Even Keelia is there, her usual carefree demeanor replaced by icy precision. Together, they’re holding the line, but it’s clear they won’t last.

Not against this. As the villagers struggle, the mysterious figures press their attack, the red-haired warrior darting forward with impossibly quick strikes while the mage’s spells ripple through the air, binding some of Daurenzeur’s tendrils in glowing chains. But even they can’t seem to land a decisive blow.

The fight blurs into a storm of chaos, but amidst it all, I catch sight of something strange. A figure with dark red hair and matching cat ears moves with lethal grace, wielding a gleaming rapier that flashes like lightning.

Their precision and fluidity stand in stark contrast to Daurenzeur’s overwhelming, chaotic power. Where Daurenzeur’s every movement exudes malice and destruction, the red-haired figure fights with a calculated elegance, each strike purposeful and sharp, like a master artisan shaping steel.

Beside them, a mage clad in white with hair as pale as snow channels glowing energy, casting shields and healing those around her. Their movements are almost too fast to follow, but Daurenzeur seems fixated on them, his clawed tendrils lashing out in their direction.

Within the village, I catch glimpses of Torma swinging her axe in a furious arc, cleaving through a wave of Daurenzeur’s blackened undead sentinels, her roar of defiance echoing through the smoke. Keelia moves with terrifying precision, her blade flashing as she counters a strike meant for a young villager.

A group of warriors bands together, their shields locked as they push against an onslaught of icy tendrils snaking from the ground, only to be engulfed by a surge of the ichor. Tears streak through the soot on their faces, but still, they fight. And still, the village crumbles around us.

When it’s over, Skalderen is unrecognizable. Smoke hangs heavy in the air, curling around the remains of what once was home. Daurenzeur lets out a final, triumphant roar before vanishing into the frost, his form dissipating like smoke caught in the wind.

The red-haired warrior and the white-clad mage exchange a brief glance before they, too, disappear into the haze, leaving no trace behind.

That night, as I sit among the remains of my home, something hardens in me. The vision of the archway and its swirling symbols burns in my mind, refusing to fade. Maybe this isn’t just about honoring my ancestors or following some ancient tradition. Maybe it’s the key to stopping monsters like Daurenzeur. To saving what’s left.

With nothing but resolve and the ache of loss, I gather my things and head out alone. The path back to the archway is treacherous, but each step feels lighter, each gust of wind less biting. When I finally reach it, the archway blazes with life, its symbols pulsating in rhythmic waves of energy that resonate in my chest like a second heartbeat.

The closer I get, the more the world around me seems to fade—the icy winds grow silent, the biting cold becomes a distant memory. The glow illuminates the surrounding snow, casting eerie, flickering shapes that seem to move of their own accord. It spills across the ground in undulating waves, creating long shadows that twist and ripple as though alive.

The air around it crackles faintly, and the frost-covered ground shimmers as if lit from within, adding an otherworldly shimmer to the desolation. It feels like the whole world is holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. The air is heavy and electric, a hum growing louder with each step I take closer.

As I approach, the glow intensifies. Then, with a flash of light so brilliant it blinds me, the world tilts. My mind spins, and my knees give way. I collapse to the frozen ground, gasping for breath.

When I manage to open my eyes, the light is gone, and the archway is silent once more. My head pounds, but my gaze locks onto the object cradled in my trembling hands—a shard of amethyst. Its surface catches the pale light of dawn, refracting it into a soft, mesmerizing glow that seems almost alive.

The gem pulses faintly, as though it holds its own heartbeat, and I feel an inexplicable pull, like it’s tethered to me in some profound, unspoken way. This isn’t just a token—it’s a key, a promise, or perhaps a warning. Whatever it is, it’s clear this is no ordinary stone.

I don’t know what it means, but deep down, I know this is only the beginning.