The wind on the mountain path wasn't as cruel as it used to be.
Spring had begun creeping its way through the edges of Blóðfjall, melting the snow in patches along the sloped roads. But Rurik still wore the heavy cloak Kyjell used to drape over his shoulders when he was younger—now a little short in the sleeves, but comforting in ways nothing else could be.
Two months had passed since he made the decision to join the war effort. His mother had reluctantly agreed, and Vosk had taken personal charge of preparing him. Every morning since, he'd trained in the same yard Kyjell once stood in, blades clashing, muscles aching, until he could no longer lift his sword.
But now, he was no longer training.
Now, he was marching.
Three days of travel stood between the capital and the eastern front, where his father led the Blóðfjall army into the lowlands. His escort consisted of four warriors, all veterans. And one of them had once fought beside Kyjell.
"You walk like him," the man said casually, glancing down the slope they were descending. His name was Brynn—tall, wiry, with a patchy beard and a scar slicing across his lip that made him look like he was always smiling on one side.
"Is that supposed to be a compliment?" Rurik asked.
Brynn chuckled. "Sure. Unless you trip over your own feet like he used to."
Rurik smirked, eyes forward. The path curved along a steep drop, revealing the stretch of forest and field that separated them from the warm east. "He never told me that."
"Because he was embarrassed," Brynn said. "First week out in Esmire, he fell face-first into a river trying to sneak up on a sentry. We had to carry him back soaked like a drowned cat. Didn't stop him from gutting two knights the next day."
The image made Rurik laugh—but it hurt, too. That kind of laughter always did now.
He let the sound fade with the wind, taking comfort in the quiet clink of gear and boots beside him.
Brynn didn't push the conversation further. The others in the group kept to themselves—one woman named Arsa, a short-tempered brute who carried a war axe almost her size, and two older men who didn't speak much but watched everything with the eyes of hawks.
The first day of travel was always the most tedious—mostly downhill along winding trails, the mountain's roots thinning into rocky soil. The terrain had changed since morning: the snow behind them now gave way to damp stone and patches of green.
They made steady progress until late afternoon, when the sun dipped behind the cliffs, and shadows stretched across the slope.
It started with a rustle.
Then came the snort.
Then the low, guttural grunt of something heavy crashing through the trees ahead.
"Hold," Brynn said, raising a fist. The others froze.
Rurik drew his sword, steadying his breathing. His heart hadn't jumped like this in weeks—not since he started training for real. The sound of battle-ready silence was deafening.
The trees ahead parted.
A lumbering beast padded into view—something between a boar and a bear, fur matted with mud, its tusks coated in dried blood. A Fjordmaw, by the look of it. Ugly and mean.
"Looks like a loner," Brynn muttered. "Easy kill."
"Let me try," Rurik said, stepping forward before anyone else could. His hand clenched around the sword hilt, and though his voice was calm, his chest burned with need. A need to prove something.
To them. To himself.
"You sure?" Arsa raised an eyebrow. "You don't wanna trip like your brother did, right?"
Rurik didn't answer. He took another step forward.
The Fjordmaw growled and charged.
He waited—one beat, two—and then dove left, the beast missing him by inches. He came up to a knee, blade raised, and slashed as it turned to lunge again. The strike grazed its shoulder, not deep enough. Rurik gritted his teeth.
The monster barreled forward again.
This time, he ran to meet it.
He ducked under the swipe of its claws, pivoted, and dragged his blade across its side—deep, clean. The beast shrieked in pain, stumbled, then collapsed into the dirt.
Rurik stood over it, panting.
The escorts clapped—not loud, but enough to show approval.
"Clean work," Brynn said. "Tighter form next time. But not bad, princeling."
Rurik wiped the sweat from his brow and looked down at his blade. "He would've killed it faster."
"He would've hesitated," Brynn replied. "Then he'd kick himself about it for an hour."
They pressed onward as night crept in.
⸻
By the time they set camp under a thicket of dark trees, stars had begun to pierce the night sky. The fire crackled low between them, casting shadows across faces and steel.
Rurik sat apart from the others, legs pulled up, cloak tight around his shoulders. His sword sat beside him, half-cleaned, half-forgotten.
He stared up at the stars.
"You're out there," he whispered, barely audible over the fire. "Somewhere."
No one responded.
Brynn watched from a distance but said nothing. The man was smart enough to know when silence spoke louder.
Rurik closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to remember.
He pictured Kyjell's smirk. The way he always said stupid things just to annoy their mother. The way he stood between Rurik and the world like it was second nature.
The way he vanished.
The flames cracked.
Rurik didn't cry.
Not anymore.
But that ache didn't go away.
⸻
Morning came early and sharp.
They packed up quickly and continued down the slope into the first stretch of Blóðfjall's eastern plains—rolling hills, patches of forest, and the smell of growing warmth on the breeze.
By mid-morning, they reached a small riverside village—one of Blóðfjall's few civilian outposts. Farmers and smiths, most of them old warriors or their families. They offered food, news, and cheers when they learned who Rurik was.
"Your brother once stayed here," one of the older men told him, handing him a strip of dried meat. "He killed a pack of Thornhounds for us. Saved three children."
Rurik smiled, bowed, and moved on.
He didn't say anything until they were back on the road.
"He really left a mark everywhere, didn't he?"
Brynn shrugged. "He was loud. Hard to forget."
Rurik stared ahead, eyes locked on the faint haze of the eastern horizon.
"Well, I plan to be louder."