Book One – Chapter 13

The axe came down. It was swift, a lethal arc cutting through the chaos of the storm. It bit deep into the voltera’s neck, cleaving through muscle and bone with grim finality. The beast lurched violently to the side, and in that instant, the cliffside beneath them gave way. Ice cracked, snow crumbled, and for a fleeting moment, the voltra teetered at the edge of the Snowtrail, then he plunged, his massive form crashing down the steep cliff.

Gorak had only a split second. He hurled himself from the voltera’s back, the ground vanishing beneath him. The world turned to chaos — snow, wind, and jagged rock all blurring into one violent rush. Snow exploded and shards of ice flew in every direction as his heavy frame slammed against the jagged rock. He hit a ledge far below the trail, landing with bone-shattering force. The impact drove the breath from his lungs, but Gorak was on his feet in an instant. Bloodshot eyes turned to track the voltera’s body careening down the crags. For a brutal second, he watched as the beast scraped along the rock, limbs breaking, flesh tearing apart in a gruesome cascade of blood and fur, before he was swallowed by the storm-shrouded maw of the mountain.

For a moment, Gorak stood still, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His expression was one of grim satisfaction, yet he did not indulge in it. The kill, as precious as it was, did not belong to him. It was not his victory alone. The mountain had been with him, had chosen him. It had gifted him the moment when the ledge crumbled, when the voltera’s weight had torn through the fragile surface and sent it plummeting to its death, and so, the spoils were not his to claim. Gorak’s people had long known this truth: the mountain takes as it gives. It demands tribute, and those who survive its trials do so only with its blessing.

Gorak spat into the snow, a bitter laugh rumbling from his chest. The beast could have fed his horde for many nights. But this was the way of things. He had survived. The mountain had given him that. The krag tore off his heavy armour, leaving only scraps of fur to cover his body, preparing to climb. He would return to claim his place among the living — if the mountain willed it.