Paths Beyond

Once again, this is over 3000 words. I think it does give a break to the action. It will slow down just a bit before picking right back up. I have a feeling this arc will be ending soon.

______________________________

The village gates creaked open, the sound groaning like an old wound torn fresh. Elder stood at the threshold, a gnarled hand clutching his weathered staff, the other raised to shield his weary eyes from the pale light of dawn. His shadow stretched long across the frostbitten ground, merging with those of the village elders gathered behind him—men and women carved from decades of harsh winters and harder choices. Their faces were etched with lines of grief and worry, their breath misting faintly in the cold air.

But nothing could have prepared them for the sight before them.

The sleds creaked as they were pulled through the gates, their runners carving thin scars into the snow. They were heavy with the dead, the lifeless forms beneath thick, bloodstained pelts barely concealed. The scent of copper clung to the air, sharp and unrelenting, seeping into every breath.

Elder's knuckles turned white around his staff as his frail shoulders trembled. His voice, cracked and fragile, barely carried over the cold wind.

"So many…"

Atop the sleds lay Spider's entire squad—all but Daunt, who stood silent, his hollow eyes fixed on the snow. Three more from Brawl's team lay among the fallen. Wild stood apart, her club still clutched in trembling hands.

And Keen… Keen carried the broken remains of the elk-like creature they had slain. Its glass-like body shimmered faintly in the dim light, its jagged edges catching the dawn and scattering faint rainbows across Keen's frostbitten face. The beast's body was a cruel trophy—majestic even in death, and yet a reminder of all they had lost.

On two separate sleds lay Brawl and Shot.

Brawl, the unyielding shield of his squad, now looked fragile, his once-broad shoulders marred with blackened burns and ice-crusted puncture wounds. His breath came in shallow gasps, each exhale clawing weakly at the freezing air.

Beside him, Shot lay still, her thigh wrapped hastily in soaked layers of cloth, the wound still seeping where the ice spear had torn through. Her face was ashen, her lips pale, her brow glistening with fevered sweat despite the biting cold.

Keen stepped forward, exhaustion carved into every line of his face. His voice, though steady, carried a weight like stones in a frozen river.

"Elder, we need privacy. The villagers can't see us—not like this."

His hand gestured briefly toward the sleds—the bodies, the fragile line between the living and the dead.

"The dead deserve dignity. And we need care. Now."

Elder swallowed hard. His throat bobbed once, twice, before he nodded, his voice trembling but firm.

"Fetch the handlers. The ones who prepare the dead. No one else must know—not yet. Let it be understood: they will speak of this to no one. I will address the village tomorrow."

The elders shuffled away, their silence heavy, their steps uncertain as they melted into the gathering mist.

Elder turned back to Keen, his pale eyes clouded with grief and exhaustion.

"We will move the wounded first. Along the walls, to the storehouse. There, we'll tend to their injuries. And you can wash the blood from your hands. When it's done, we'll talk. Leave the bodies here."

Keen's gaze lingered briefly on the sleds carrying Brawl and Shot. Despite the crude wrappings, fresh blood still seeped through, staining the wood beneath them. Their breathing—so faint, so fragile—whispered of minutes slipping away.

"We can't wait," Keen said, his voice taut, close to breaking. "They need treatment now."

Elder raised a trembling hand, silencing him with quiet authority.

"The storehouse has everything we need. If the village sees this… panic will drown us before the sun sets."

For a moment, Keen said nothing. His jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides. But at last, he gave a sharp nod, turning back to the survivors.

Just as they were about to move, a voice cut through the frigid silence.

"No."

Wild's voice was soft, fragile, but it cracked like brittle glass. Her knees buckled, and she sank beside Spider's body, her fingers trembling as they brushed against the edge of his bloodstained shroud.

"I'm not leaving him. I'm not… I can't."

Her shoulders trembled as silent sobs wracked her frame.

"You said we'd come back together… you promised…"

Daunt stood a few steps behind her, his face pale and pinched with grief. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but the words died in his throat. His gaze lingered on Spider's still form, and somewhere deep in his chest, a whisper clawed its way free: You should have done more.

Slowly, Daunt stepped forward and lowered himself beside Wild. His voice, when it came, was rough and low.

"I'll stay too. We'll be fine. We… we can clean up in our own time."

Keen hesitated. His sharp eyes flicked toward the village walls, toward the distant outlines of shadowed windows. There wasn't enough time to argue.

"Stay then," he said softly.

The rest began their slow, heavy procession along the village walls. Each step seemed to echo louder than it should have, each breath misting the cold air like a fragile promise not to shatter.

Elder walked at the front, his cane tapping softly against the snow-dusted earth. Keen followed behind, his sharp gaze sweeping over every flicker of movement, every shadow that stretched too far, every sound that didn't belong. The weight of the shattered beast dragged behind them like an omen.

The sleds creaked as they moved, their runners leaving thin, fleeting scars in the snow. Brawl's chest rose and fell in shallow gasps, his eyelids flickering weakly before slipping closed again. Shot remained deathly still, her lips parted slightly as though whispering a prayer no one could hear.

The storehouse loomed ahead—a hulking structure carved from ancient stone. Its black onyx doors glinted faintly in the morning light, the carvings etched into them alive with faint energy.

Elder stepped forward, slicing his palm with a thin blade. His blood, dark against the pale morning light, smeared the intricate carvings on the stone door. His necklace glowed faintly, casting fragmented light across the frostbitten ground.

With a deep rumble, the stone shifted and the doors groaned open, releasing a faint breath of stale, ancient air.

"Inside. Now," Elder said softly.

The sleds were carefully maneuvered through the wide entrance. The hunters' faces were lined with concentration, every movement deliberate. Behind them, the doors groaned shut, sealing them away from the waking village.

"Leave the sled here, with the beast," Elder instructed, urgency sharpening his frail voice. "Bring the wounded only."

Keen, Serene, and Fleet moved swiftly. They lifted Shot and Brawl with care, their bodies heavy and fragile in their arms. The others followed, their breath sharp and shallow with strain.

The ancient room unfolded before them—a cavern of carved stone, its walls etched with faint sigils that pulsed dimly in the light.

"Bring them to the cauldron!" Elder barked, his frail hands already dancing over shelves and drawers, pulling herbs, powders, and vials with impossible precision.

The cauldron hissed as water began to pour from channels carved high above. Steam rose, thick and heavy, curling into the frozen air. Elder's hands moved with frantic expertise, throwing herbs and powders into the churning water. Each one released bursts of glowing vapor before vanishing into the brew.

"Put them in. Now!" Elder commanded.

Without hesitation, Shot and Brawl were lowered gently into the shimmering water, their broken forms swallowed up to their necks in its flickering light.

For a fleeting moment, hope flickered in the cold air. The glow of the cauldron reflected off their pale faces, and the faint rise and fall of their chests seemed steadier. Their wounds stopped bleeding. Their grimaces of pain softened slightly.

But then—nothing more.

Their breathing remained shallow, their faces pale and still.

Serene stood frozen, her wide eyes locked onto Shot's unmoving face. Her voice trembled as it clawed its way out of her throat, cracking under the weight of terror.

"Elder, it's not working! You have to do something—you have to add more!"

Elder turned to her, his frail hands trembling slightly. His expression was carved from sorrow and resignation, his voice heavy with finality.

"Serene… it doesn't work like that. This isn't a fire we can stoke with more wood. Adding too much could kill them. It's up to their strength now."

Serene's breath hitched. Her fists clenched so tightly her knuckles turned white as she stumbled back a step, tears brimming in her wide eyes.

"You're supposed to save them… You're supposed to—" Her voice cracked, and she turned away, clutching her arms tightly around herself as though she could hold her breaking heart together.

Root stepped in beside her, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. His face, usually so warm and calm, was etched with silent grief. Fleet stared into the cauldron, his lips pressed into a thin line. Charge stood with his head bowed, fists trembling at his sides.

The silence settled over them like a heavy snowfall, suffocating and absolute.

Keen stood apart from the others, his sharp gaze locked onto Shot and Brawl as their fragile lives flickered like guttering candles in a bitter wind. His mind raced—an avalanche of failure, of guilt, of the faces he'd promised to protect. Each promise broken, each life lost, each word whispered in vain to the dead.

But one memory clawed its way through the chaos, sharp and venomous.

The old man. His mocking smile. The way his voice dripped with cold amusement as he handed them the vial.

Keen's hand shot to the inner lining of his fur coat. With trembling fingers, he pulled out a tiny glass vial, no larger than his thumb. The swirling iridescent liquid inside glowed faintly, alive with a slow, rhythmic pulse, as if it carried a heartbeat of its own.

It felt impossibly heavy in his palm, as though it carried not just the weight of its contents, but the weight of every life in that room.

"Elder!" he barked, his voice slicing through the stillness. He held the vial high, its faint glow casting sharp, flickering reflections across the stone walls. "Do you know what this is?"

Elder's eyes locked onto the vial, and for a single heartbeat, time seemed to stop. His frail frame shuddered, his breath catching in his throat. The light caught the vial's glow, painting fragile shadows across Elder's lined face.

Slowly, he stumbled closer, his trembling hands hovering inches from the vial but not daring to touch it. His voice, when it came, was soft but laced with awe.

"A life-binding catalyst… a bridge between death and life."

His eyes darted up to Keen's, wide and full of unspoken questions.

"Where… how did you…? How did you come across something so precious?"

Keen's jaw tightened as his fingers curled protectively around the vial. His voice was rough, low.

"We were given it. By the man who nearly killed us all."

Elder's eyes lingered on the vial for a heartbeat longer before he turned abruptly. His frail hands snatched a heavy tome bound in cracked leather from a nearby shelf. Its pages were yellowed with age, the ink faded but still legible.

He flipped through the fragile parchment with feverish precision until he stopped on a single page—a diagram filled with intricate sigils and flowing script. The image showed a shimmering vial, much like the one in Keen's hand, suspended over a pool of black liquid.

Without another word, Elder turned and ascended the narrow stone steps that led up to the cauldron. His frail frame looked impossibly small next to the massive basin, but his movements were steady, purposeful.

The vial trembled in his hands as he uncorked it. A faint mist rose from its mouth, carrying a sharp, metallic scent that seemed to hum faintly in the still air.

The liquid inside pulsed one last time—one final heartbeat—as if it knew what was coming.

With a steady hand, Elder tipped the vial over the cauldron, and the catalyst spilled into the shimmering water below.

For a single, breathless moment, the liquid stilled.

Then—it changed.

The water turned deep, void-like black, its surface glittering with countless pinpricks of light, like an entire night sky trapped in ink. The glow spread outward in shimmering ripples, painting faint constellations across the stone walls.

The air thrummed with energy, vibrating deep in their bones, as though the cauldron were drawing in the very essence of the room—the air, the stone, their breath, their fear.

The group stood frozen, captivated by the sight. Grey's breath caught in his throat. In his silver eyes, he could see threads of energy pulling inward, drawn toward the black water like a whirlpool. Every flicker of red light, every faint pulse of life, seemed to bend toward the cauldron.

Beneath the surface, the transformation began.

Wounds began to close. Burns faded into smooth, unblemished skin. Shattered flesh knitted back together. The injuries that had seemed too deep, too fatal, slowly began to heal.

It was both beautiful and haunting—an intimate dance of life clawing its way back from the edge of oblivion.

Brawl was the first to stir. His massive chest rose sharply as he sucked in a ragged breath, his lips parting as his eyelids fluttered open. His voice came in a low, hoarse murmur.

"Feels… like I got punched by a god."

Beside him, Shot's eyes flickered open. Her pale lips trembled as she drew in a shaky breath. She blinked once, twice, before her gaze locked onto Serene. A fragile, flickering smile tugged at her mouth.

Serene let out a sharp gasp, her hands flying up to cover her mouth as tears spilled freely down her face.

"Shot… you're… you're awake…"

Around the cauldron, the group exhaled collectively, as if they had been holding their breath for hours. Fleet let out a sharp, shaky laugh. Root closed his eyes, his lips moving in a silent prayer. Even Keen's shoulders sagged slightly, a faint, disbelieving smile ghosting across his face.

But Elder remained still, his sharp gaze locked on the cauldron. The glow was fading now, dimming into a perfect, starlit black.

"Now," Elder said, his voice low yet firm as it carried across the heavy silence. "You all rest here. Keep Brawl and Shot company. They'll need to remain in the cauldron's embrace for an entire day. Only when nightfall arrives can they be moved."

The weight of his words seemed to settle over the group like a thick blanket of snow. No one spoke. No one dared to move.

Elder's knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of a nearby table for support. His weathered eyes, sharp as ever, turned toward Keen.

"Keen, I need answers. Come with me."

Keen gave a sharp nod, his expression unreadable. But as he turned to follow Elder, his sharp gaze flicked to Grey.

"Grey, you're coming too. We need to talk about those strangers you saw… and I have questions for you."

The weight in Keen's voice left no room for argument. Grey hesitated only for a brief moment before rising to his feet. His boots scuffed softly against the stone floor as he followed the two older men toward a heavy wooden table tucked in the corner of the room. Lantern light flickered above, casting scarred shadows across the cracked surface of the table.

As they reached the table, Keen's voice broke the silence, sharp and decisive.

"Grey, go to the sleds. Bring every leather bag we recovered from those strangers. Elder and I will begin discussing what we know."

Grey nodded and disappeared down the stone corridor, his steps quick, his breath sharp in the still air.

The silence that settled between Elder and Keen was heavy, filled with unspoken questions and the faint drip of condensation from the cavern ceiling. Elder's eyes flicked briefly toward the cauldron before returning to Keen.

"You said the man who gave you that vial nearly killed you all."

Keen's jaw tightened, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. "He played with us. Toyed with our survival like we were insects under his boot. His power—it was beyond anything I've ever seen. He summoned storms, shards of ice sharp enough to cleave stone. He smiled while doing it, Elder. Smiled as he nearly ended us all."

Elder's shoulders sagged slightly, the weight of Keen's words pulling him down. His face, etched with lines of wisdom and age, creased further as he closed his eyes briefly, as if searching for some unspoken answer in the darkness behind his eyelids.

Before either of them could say another word, Grey returned. His arms were laden with worn leather satchels, each stained with dried blood. They clinked faintly as he set them down on the table, one by one.

The tension in the air became palpable, so thick it felt like it could shatter if someone dared to breathe too loudly.

Elder's trembling hands reached out and hovered over the first bag. His fingers twitched slightly as if hesitant to open it. Finally, with a slow breath, he undid the leather bindings and spilled the contents onto the table.

Knives—slender, sharp, and made from a strange reflective material that caught the lantern light like water frozen mid-motion. There were claw-like tools, strange wooden rods that radiated faint warmth, and finally, a smooth, glass-like orb that pulsed faintly, almost like a heartbeat.

Elder froze, his pale eyes locked onto the orb. His breath hitched audibly in his chest.

"A Central Organ…"

His voice was little more than a cracked whisper. He reached out a trembling hand but stopped himself just before his fingertips could make contact with the orb. His eyes darted briefly toward Keen and Grey, heavy with something between fear and awe.

"It seems only in tragedy will fate smile upon us."

Grey said nothing, his silver eyes flicking between the orb and Elder's trembling hand. Keen, however, leaned in slightly, his voice low and steady.

"What does it mean, Elder? What are these tools? What is… that?"

Elder exhaled shakily, his hand falling away from the orb.

"The Central Organ—it's a core. A lifeblood, a focus of power. Most creatures of magic have something like this at their center. But to possess one… and in such pristine condition… This could change everything."

Without further prompting, Grey began emptying the other bags onto the table. Each bag contained similar tools—knives, clawed instruments, and shards of strange crystal. But it was the final bag—soaked heavily in dried blood—that drew all their eyes.

Ten small orbs rolled across the table, clicking faintly against the worn wood. Their glow was subtle yet undeniable, casting a faint, multicolored radiance that danced across Elder's lined face and Keen's sharp features.

"That—" Elder gasped.

Keen's voice was little more than a whisper, thick with disbelief.

"So many…"

But before they could process the orbs fully, one more object tumbled from the bag. A scroll.

Its material was unlike anything they had ever seen—smoother than parchment, sturdier than cloth, and shimmering faintly as though it had been brushed with starlight.

Elder's face went pale. His trembling hands carefully picked up the scroll, his eyes scanning the surface with the reverence of someone handling something divine.

The markings etched onto the scroll were intricate, almost alive in their complexity. Symbols and sigils wove together like an ancient song frozen mid-verse. At the center of the scroll sat a lone image—a figure seated cross-legged, utterly still.

Elder's voice trembled as he spoke, the words barely escaping his lips.

"A Doctrine of Will…"

Keen's brow furrowed, his sharp eyes locked onto the scroll.

"What does it mean, Elder?"

But Elder did not respond immediately. His eyes remained fixed on the scroll, his lips moving faintly, as though he were reading something none of them could see.

______________________________

I will expand on the mysteries of the village and the power system next chapter...hopefully it won't be too much plot dump.