Thinking about his gems and the orichs made Nagrak’s thoughts loop back to the things he had gotten from the other Haraak, specifically to his last exchange with Balthagar. The Speran Ember — where had that gone? Had it dropped before he did? Had it slipped from his grip during the fall? Or had it fallen into the cave below? He did not know. And in the end, it did not matter. With no tools, no weapons, no gear at hand, the difference between having a piece of Haraak heritage or not was more philosophical than practical.

So it came down to what was left, which was nothing but the empty hand by itself. Precisely, one half-frozen hand and whatever fingernails remained unshattered.

Nagrak tried to shift, slowly at first, then with sharp jerks — anything to see if the jammed joint might pop free this time, but every attempt met the same stabbing resistance from his shoulder. He clawed at the rock for a long time. One by one, what remained of his nails cracked. Split. Peeled back. He kept going until none were left. With his fingers rendered useless, he tried pounding the rock with his fist, over and over — again, nothing happened. Not to the stone, anyway. His knuckles swelled. The frozen skin tore, until it was all but bone that struck the ice. Eventually, the pain turned to dull thudding and then to something like heat; not warmth, but that burning numbness that signalled severe, irreversible damage. Well, no shit. Nagrak did not need a warning. But the burning sensation gave him another idea.

He attempted to piss on his own arm – the trapped one, obviously – the logic being that the warmth might loosen the grip of ice or slick the stone just enough for him to slip free. It was not exactly a dignified effort. Given his position, he could not reach without making an utter mess. After several awkward contortions and attempts to flick his cock upward at just the right angle to make the stream hit, he settled for urinating into his hand, then lifting the piss and splashing it onto his trapped limb.

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