Chapter 94 The Flame Beneath the Ice

“Forgan.”

The name meant the flame beneath the ice.

It was not Common.

Nor did it come from one of the obscure dialects scattered across the Northlands.

According to the tribe’s elders, the word came from an ancient epic passed down through generations of the Frostthroat Clan.

As a child, Forgan had hated it.

In his young mind, fire was one of the strongest things in the world.

Only the chieftain ranked higher.

Fire drove away the cold.

It gave warmth to clansmen who lived beneath endless snow and cutting winds.

Even meat frozen so hard that chewing made his teeth ache would become soft and juicy once roasted over a flame.

As far as the young Forgan was concerned, anything that could transform a rock-hard lump of frozen flesh into something delicious enough to make him want to swallow his tongue deserved respect.

Then he learned something else.

The tribe’s warriors told him that the strongest barbarians protected by ancestral spirits carried fierce rage in their hearts.

Rage like fire.

That only made him dislike his name more.

Fire should burn brightly.

Openly.

Without restraint.

It should not hide beneath a layer of ice.

So although Forgan had been the strongest child among his peers, he rarely boasted about the origin of his name the way other children did.

Whenever the topic came up, he flexed his arms, showed off his muscles, and pretended he did not care.

That usually changed the subject.

Usually.

But he was still a child.

And children wanted approval even when they pretended otherwise.

At night, when nobody else was watching, Forgan would crawl beneath his blankets and pester his mother.

“Does it really mean only that?”

“Isn’t there another meaning?”

“Are you sure?”

Again.

And again.

And again.

His persistence seemed stubborn enough to melt ice.

Unfortunately, his mother genuinely did not know.

In the Frostthroat Clan, newborn children received their names after their first month of life.

The chieftain performed a divination, then named them personally.

Forgan’s mother was a hardworking young woman who had never left the Frostmoss Highlands.

She knew no more about the hidden meaning of his name than he did.

And she certainly was not going to bother the busiest and most respected elder in the tribe over a child’s bedtime complaints.

So every night, she gave him the same answer.

“A flame burning beneath the ice.”

“Ice and flame.”

“Ice… flame…”

And whenever she finally lost patience with his endless questions, she brought out another old answer.

One that worked much better.

“Disobedient children get taken away by the winter-spirit hag at night.”

“She turns them into snowmen.”

“Snowmen that can never speak again.”

Children of the icefields were remarkably vulnerable to that particular story.

Especially once his mother began describing the details.

The winter-spirit hag rode a dull-gray broom.

Her fingers were shriveled and twisted like dead branches.

She would reach into the house at night, seize a disobedient child by the neck, and drag them straight out of bed.

No matter how energetic Forgan had been a moment earlier, that part always worked.

He would immediately disappear beneath the blankets and beg his mother not to extinguish the hearth.

Time passed.

Forgan grew.

His shoulders broadened.

His arms thickened.

His height shot upward year after year.

Eventually, even the mother who had once needed to crouch to meet his eyes had to tilt her head back when she spoke to him.

By then, his childhood annoyance over a name had already been buried beneath the worries and hopes of youth.

An axe flashing through snow.

Fresh scars across his arms.

The hot breath of a roaring winter wolf.

And sometimes…

A girl’s long braid swaying in the wind.

Forgan stopped caring what his name meant.

A name was just a name.

“Rustle.”

He shifted the heavy backpack in his hands.

It was packed almost to bursting with food, tools, and supplies.

The youthful softness had not completely left his face yet, and the helplessness there was obvious.

“You really don’t need to give me this much.”

He glanced at his mother.

“I can buy things in the towns outside.”

The protest had no effect.

His mother kept packing.

Forgan sighed.

He understood.

He was leaving.

She was worried.

That was all.

So instead of complaining, he made a few jokes and tried to smooth some of the concern from her face.

Then he pulled the heavy pack onto his back and fastened it securely.

His mother walked him outside.

“Ah…”

A startled cry sounded nearby.

Forgan turned his head.

A figure darted away through the snow.

Quick.

Light.

Like a snow hare.

Two long, powerful legs carried the girl away in a hurry, while a pale-blue braid bounced behind her in the winter light.

His mother followed his gaze.

Then she smiled.

“You’re not going to say goodbye?”

The teasing in her voice was obvious.

She lightly slapped his shoulder.

Forgan looked away.

“No.”

He tightened the straps of his pack.

At that moment, the hunting party returned.

Cheers rose from the road.

Several huge barbarian warriors came into view, their bodies wrapped in thick hides crusted with ice.

Between them, they carried a tundra mammoth into the settlement.

The enormous beast looked like a moving hill of brown fur.

Behind the hunters, wooden sleds dragged through the snow.

They were piled high with prey.

Large.

Small.

More than enough.

A great harvest beneath the protection of the heroic spirits.

With this much meat and hide stored away, the Frostthroat Clan would not suffer through the coming depths of winter the way it had in harsher years.

Clansmen gathered along both sides of the road.

Their cheers filled the air.

Forgan watched the returning hunters walk proudly through the settlement.

For a moment, envy flashed in his ice-blue eyes.

Then it disappeared.

Among the younger generation of the tribe, Forgan was already one of the bravest and strongest warriors.

He could have joined them.

He could have made the hunting party his future.

Except…

Forgan shook his head hard.

The hesitation left with the motion.

His expression settled.

Firm.

A winter wolf walking with the hunters suddenly stopped.

Its nose lifted.

It caught a familiar scent.

The wolf turned and trotted over, tongue hanging from its mouth.

It pressed its body against Forgan’s thigh and shoved its furry head into his palm.

Its long tail wagged so quickly that snow sprayed behind it.

The same eyes that could terrify monsters narrowed happily.

Forgan ran his hand over its fur.

Cold.

Smooth.

Familiar.

The wolf’s movement drew the attention of the burly man leading the hunting party.

He spoke briefly to his teammates, then walked over.

“Made up your mind?”

“Yes.”

“No regrets?”

Forgan shook his head.

Then he nodded firmly.

“No regrets.”

The warrior standing before him had spent years returning from hunts surrounded by children, telling them stories of battles and monsters.

He was older now.

The hair at his temples had turned completely white, as though permanently stained by frost.

His broad, callused hand came down heavily on Forgan’s shoulder.

“Good.”

“Knowing where you want to go is enough.”

There was no disappointment in his voice.

No attempt to persuade Forgan to stay.

Only relief.

The young man had found a path.

That was what mattered.

After a moment, the warrior reached inside his clothes and pulled out a piece of mammoth ivory.

The polished surface reflected a warm, bone-white sheen.

He pressed it into Forgan’s hand.

“Go.”

“And remember.”

“You can come back whenever you want.”

“The hunting party will always have a place for you.”

Forgan closed his fingers around the ivory.

“…All right.”

His mother accompanied him farther through the tribe.

Eventually, they reached the final place he needed to visit before leaving.

The altar.

“Whoosh.”

Orange-red flames burned quietly.

Now and then, a gust of cold wind passed through them and drew out a faint crackle.

There was no firewood.

No coal.

No visible fuel at all.

The flame simply burned atop an ancient mass of ice-covered stone carved with complex patterns and radiating a primitive, almost savage aura.

It consumed the snow and cold of the highlands themselves.

As though frost were fuel.

As though winter fed the fire.

Behind the flames stood a pitch-black totem at the center of the altar.

The carvings on its surface had been worn almost smooth.

Even at close range, the pattern was difficult to identify.

Perhaps a flower.

Perhaps something else.

Children in the Frostthroat Clan were forbidden from approaching the totem before adulthood.

Touching it was completely out of the question.

By the time those children grew old enough to be allowed near it, most had already lost the curiosity that once made the restriction so tempting.

Forgan had been the same.

His clearest memory of the sacred flame came from childhood.

He had once asked the chieftain why it never went out.

The old man had smiled.

“This is the treasure of the Frostthroat Clan.”

“As long as even one member of our clan remains alive in this world…”

“The flame will never be extinguished.”

Years had passed since then.

The chieftain still looked almost exactly the same.

Still smiling.

Still old.

Still covered in the same wrinkles Forgan remembered from childhood.

Maybe there were a few more now.

If so, Forgan had not noticed.

Standing before the altar, he felt the restless thoughts in his chest slowly settle.

He was about to leave.

The elder who had named him when he was born would now represent the entire Frostthroat Clan and grant him one final blessing.

“Whoom!”

The sacred flame surged.

Warm orange-red light rose into the air.

It intertwined with the strange glow beneath the clouds, then gathered around the black totem.

A beam descended.

It enveloped Forgan.

The elder moved his lips.

An unfamiliar hymn left them in a low murmur.

Ice-blue light gathered on his fingertips.

His hand trembled slightly as he traced ancient, sacred patterns across Forgan’s young face.

The marks flashed.

Then disappeared.

The blue light sank beneath Forgan’s skin and faded into his body.

A blessing.

The blessing of the clan’s heroic spirits.

Forgan slowly stood.

He bowed to the old man.

Then to the sacred flame.

Then to the totem.

After today, he would leave the Frostthroat Clan behind and search for his own road.

A commotion suddenly rose from the watching crowd.

Laughter followed.

Warm.

Good-natured.

Forgan turned.

The girl with the long braid was pushing her way toward him.

She was breathing hard, as if she had run the whole way.

At first, her steps were hurried.

Then, as she got closer, they slowed.

Her pale cheeks turned red.

She stopped in front of him.

Said nothing.

Then held out both hands.

A thin chain rested across her palms.

Simple.

Handwoven.

Made by her.

Forgan accepted it.

He looked at the girl standing before him.

Opened his mouth.

For once, words did not come easily.

And then…

The world stopped.

Snowflakes froze in the air.

The sacred flame stopped moving.

The endless highland wind vanished.

The laughter of the clansmen disappeared.

The girl stood frozen.

The old chieftain stood frozen.

His mother stood frozen in the crowd.

Everyone.

Everything.

Forgan’s instincts screamed.

Some buried part of him already knew what came next.

He tried to move.

Tried to shout.

Nothing happened.

His body refused to obey.

Hummm…

Then time accelerated.

His body changed.

The muscles that had already been strong in his youth thickened and hardened.

The last traces of immaturity disappeared from his face.

Wind and frost carved their marks into his features.

Coarse stubble spread across his chin.

The girl before him grew older too.

Her youth faded into adulthood.

The chieftain’s hair became whiter.

Wrinkles deepened around his mother’s eyes.

And then came the color.

Dark purple.

Foul.

Rotten.

Nauseating.

The clean, freezing air of the highlands filled with something that did not belong there.

Spores.

Tiny enough to resemble smoke.

They drifted through the settlement.

Soft.

Quiet.

Almost beautiful.

And filled with malice.

A deep, unnatural hatred hidden within nature itself.

The spores settled on the clansmen.

Then took root.

They sprouted.

They fed.

Life drained away.

Skin that had endured years of wind and frost without weakness slowly turned gray-blue.

Dark, filthy spots appeared across it.

Threads of fungus writhed beneath pores.

Between strands of hair.

Across flesh.

Mycelium spread.

Twisted.

Interlocked.

Grew.

Forgan closed his eyes.

He had seen this dream countless times.

He still could not watch.

The memories came anyway.

Sharper than fangs.

Crueler than any wound.

Years had passed.

It did not matter.

He remembered everything.

Returning home.

Finding the Frostthroat Clan buried beneath snow.

Ruins where houses had once stood.

Bodies beneath the ice.

Digging through frozen earth with his own hands.

Burying clansman after clansman beneath monuments of ice.

Finding the winter wolf stiff with death.

Skinning its frozen body.

Carving bone pins from mammoth ivory.

Piercing the wolf muzzles.

Fastening them across his chest.

Tearing through tangled thorns.

Dragging the fallen totem upright.

Collecting the broken fragments scattered across the ground.

Using frost and wind to bind them into an axe blade that flickered with dim, ghostly light.

And finally…

Sitting alone before the altar.

The sacred flame barely alive.

A tiny ember where an eternal fire had once burned.

In his hand was the simple chain that the girl had made.

It still seemed warm.

As though her hands had only just released it.

Forgan had faced the shadow of a dragon without his expression changing.

But sitting there…

He felt something hot slide down his face.

One drop.

Scalding against the cold.

Only then did he finally understand his name.

“Forgan.”

“The flame beneath the ice.”

…

…

“Crackle.”

Moisture trapped inside a branch burst free in the campfire.

Forgan’s eyes opened.

The cold surrounding him receded.

The nightmare vanished.

The wolf muzzles sewn into his cloak overlapped across his chest.

Silver-white fur moved gently in the night breeze.

The simple chain around his neck caught the orange glow of the fire, each bone and fang pendant reflecting faint light.

His obsidian handaxe rested beside him.

Forgan sat exactly as he had before closing his eyes.

Rough face.

Cold expression.

No visible emotion.

It looked as if he had merely dozed for a moment.

Nothing more.

But the campsite told a different story.

The temperature was only now beginning to rise again.

Glowing ice crystals drifted through the air around him.

And the enormous oak tree against his back…

From the outside, it looked perfectly normal.

Only a faint icy glimmer could occasionally be seen in the cracks of its bark.

Inside, the entire tree had frozen solid.

From the vast roots beneath the soil to the smallest branches high above.

Ice.

“Achoo!”

Across the campfire, Xia Nan jerked and sneezed.

He rubbed his nose.

This was ridiculous.

It was the hottest season of the year.

He was wearing two layers of armor.

And somehow, he was still cold enough to feel as though he might catch a cold.

Xia Nan stretched both hands toward the fire.

Warmth returned slowly to his fingers.

Then he raised his eyes and glanced at Forgan.

Of course he knew who was responsible for the sudden drop in temperature.

Ever since they found that mushroom growing from the hobgoblin’s corpse during the day, the barbarian had been off.

Quieter than usual.

Colder than usual.

Not that Xia Nan had asked.

Forgan had clearly shown no desire to explain.

Normally, Xia Nan was perfectly happy to respect that.

But now the entire camp had nearly turned into an ice cellar.

Pretending not to notice was getting difficult.

He hesitated.

Then spoke carefully.

“Did… something happen?”

Forgan did not raise his head.

Orange firelight reflected in his ice-blue eyes.

“It’s nothing.”