The second day of travel began before the sun had even risen. Mist rolled down the mountain slopes like lazy smoke, and frost clung to the grass in stubborn patches. Rurik's breath fogged the air as he adjusted his cloak and looked ahead, the path winding through sparse forest before leveling into wide plains.
They had descended far from the frozen spine of Blóðfjall, and already the change in scenery was sharp. The air was still crisp, but the snow had given way to green earth. Ahead lay a world of golden fields, dense woodland, and the burning scent of war on the horizon.
Captain Arnulf—Kyjell's former squadmate and now Rurik's escort—rode beside him with a solemn expression. The older warrior hadn't said much that morning, save for a few barking orders to the other escorts. Still, Rurik didn't mind the silence. He had plenty on his mind.
"You're quieter than yesterday," Arnulf finally grunted.
Rurik glanced over, then smiled faintly. "Trying to save my voice for the songs I'll sing after the war."
Arnulf snorted. "Good. Nothing lifts a soldier's spirit like an eleven-year-old prince with a cracked voice singing about honor."
The two shared a brief laugh, and Rurik looked ahead again. His smile faded.
They'd passed two villages that morning. Both lively, both full of Blóðfjall's people preparing carts, crafting weapons, and training in makeshift sparring yards. One elderly woman had pressed a charm into Rurik's hand—a carved wolf made from bone.
"For strength," she had whispered. "Like your brother."
The words sat heavy on his chest.
By midday, they stopped to rest in a grove of trees. Rurik practiced alone with his sword while the others tended to the horses and supplies. He moved through the forms Captain Vosk had drilled into him back in the capital—tight arcs, swift feints, balanced footwork. His blade sliced through the air with growing confidence.
He paused to catch his breath and noticed Arnulf watching from a tree stump nearby.
"You've got the steps," the man said, chewing on a piece of jerky. "But steps alone won't save your skin."
Rurik wiped sweat from his brow. "Then teach me what will."
Arnulf stood and drew his own blade. "Come on, then. Let's see if you've got the bite to match the bark."
They sparred in the clearing. Arnulf didn't go easy—Rurik was forced to dodge, block, and adapt quickly. He earned a few bruises, a nick across the forearm, and one hard knock to the ribs. But he never yielded.
After they finished, panting and covered in dirt, Arnulf nodded with a rare flicker of approval.
"You're not your brother," he said, "but you've got your own fire."
That night, they made camp by a shallow stream. The others rotated watch while Rurik leaned against a fallen log, staring up at the stars. He held the carved wolf in his hand.
He missed Kyjell more than ever.
Not just the brother who teased him, who trained with him, who shielded him when he was scared. But the version of Kyjell that wasn't weighed down by expectation—the one who used to race him through the halls of the castle when they were small.
Is he still alive?
Rurik clutched the wolf tighter and whispered, "You better be, you stubborn bastard."
A sound in the brush pulled his attention. One of the escorts, a woman named Skara, approached with a chunk of bread and a bottle of water.
"You should sleep," she said. "It's a long ride tomorrow."
"Can't," Rurik replied. "Too much in my head."
Skara sat beside him, offering the bread.
"You know… your brother once slept through a thunderstorm on his first campaign. We all thought he was dead. Turns out he'd just found a warm cave and decided a nap was more important than glory."
Rurik blinked. "He never told me that."
"He wouldn't." She chuckled. "Too busy trying to be a legend."
They sat in silence for a moment.
Then, in the distance—a howl.
Not a wolf. Something else.
The camp stirred.
Arnulf was on his feet in seconds. "Eyes up. Something's watching."
The forest shivered with quiet. Then came a sudden blur of motion—three pale shapes darting between trees.
Snowhounds. Thin, fast, vicious things. Lesser monsters that often roamed the outskirts of the eastern plains. They weren't a major threat, but their speed and numbers made them dangerous in packs.
Arnulf and the other escorts drew their weapons.
"Rurik, stay behind us!" Skara barked.
But Rurik had already drawn his sword.
The first Snowhound lunged toward him, a blur of fangs and muscle. He sidestepped, slashing along its flank and spinning to meet the second. A clean parry and counterstrike dropped it in the grass. He turned just in time to see Arnulf cleave the third in two with a powerful overhead strike.
Moments later, silence returned.
Rurik stood in the moonlight, his blade slick with blood. His breath trembled—not from fear, but adrenaline.
Arnulf clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Well done, pup. But next time, don't forget—you're not alone."
Rurik nodded slowly.
That night, he slept deeply, exhaustion claiming him.
And the next day, the landscape changed again.
The forests thinned, replaced by low hills and scattered rocks. Fires burned on the horizon—campfires, forge smoke, the signs of men preparing for war.
By sundown, they crested a hill and saw it.
The war camp.
Tents stretched across the valley like a sea of steel and canvas. Soldiers moved like ants, armor clanking, voices shouting orders. War beasts were tethered near the eastern edge, and banners bearing the mark of Blóðfjall rippled in the wind.
Rurik stared, wide-eyed.
This wasn't like the castle. This wasn't like sparring in the yard.
This was war.
As they descended the hill, the guards at the perimeter recognized the group and stepped aside. Arnulf raised a hand in greeting. "Prince Rurik of House Erikson, reporting to the high command."
The sentries saluted.
And Rurik rode into the heart of the camp, unsure of what awaited him—but ready to face it.