The immediate aftermath of the fight was a blur of adrenaline crash and aching exhaustion. Lunrik stumbled through the labyrinthine ice formations, forcing his injured ankle to bear his weight, the heavy energy rifle feeling like an anchor. His senses, usually sharp even in his omega form, felt dulled by the ringing in his ears from the rifle's sonic discharge and the lingering coppery tang of blood in the air. He needed to find Kaelith, needed the reassurance of her steady presence, but the glacier offered no easy paths, no clear landmarks beyond the towering, indifferent peaks and the vast, treacherous ice.
He scanned the ground constantly, searching for any sign of her passage – a scuffed patch of snow, a displaced pebble on an ice ridge, anything. But the relentless wind was already scouring the glacier surface, erasing tracks almost as soon as they were made, covering the evidence of his recent, brutal fight. He called her name softly, intermittently, his voice snatched away by the wind, likely unheard beyond a few yards. Panic began to gnaw at the edges of his hard-won composure. Had she run into trouble? Gotten lost in the ice maze? Or worse?
He pushed the darker thoughts away, focusing on survival, on movement. He knew Kaelith was incredibly resourceful, a master of evasion and wilderness survival. She would likely be circling back cautiously, trying to ascertain his fate after their split. He just needed to find a defensible position, wait, hope she could track him despite the conditions.
He found a relatively sheltered spot, a deep overhang carved by wind and meltwater beneath a large, stable-looking ice ridge, offering some protection from the relentless wind and a decent vantage point overlooking a section of the glacier. He sank down gratefully, pressing his back against the cold ice wall, pulling his dwarven cloak tighter around him. The nutrient paste he forced himself to swallow tasted like chalk, doing little to warm him or replenish his spent energy, but it was better than nothing.
He checked the communication device on his wrist. Several hours had passed since his initial report pulse to Forgemaster Borin. Protocol dictated another pulse soon. He hesitated. Reporting now, after the unsanctioned, lethal engagement with the Ashfang patrol, felt risky. Would the dwarves detect the violence? Would they consider his actions a violation of the "reconnaissance only" directive? But not reporting was likely worse, inviting suspicion or even triggering a premature retrieval attempt that could endanger both him and Kaelith.
He activated the device, sending the single pulse. Again, no response, just the silent confirmation that the signal had been sent. He could only hope Borin interpreted the continued signal as "mission ongoing, situation stable," despite the bloody reality.
As he waited, hidden beneath the ice overhang, the adrenaline fully faded, leaving only bone-deep weariness and the throbbing pain in his ankle and ribs. The silence pressed in, amplifying the mournful howl of the wind, the distant groans of the shifting glacier. Alone in this vast, hostile whiteness, the enormity of their situation threatened to overwhelm him. Hunted by Ashfang, shadowed by unknown technological forces, tolerated but constrained by suspicious dwarves, burdened by the legacy of a cursed bloodline and the fragmented memories of a dead prince… it felt like too much.
He clutched the smooth wolf-head amulet Kaelith had given him, drawing a faint, almost imperceptible warmth from it, a tangible link to her steadfast loyalty, to the Dravenwolf life that felt increasingly distant. He thought of Finn, alone in the northern cave, wondering if the boy still held the amulet Lunrik had passed on. Small acts of connection, fragile defenses against the overwhelming darkness.
Suddenly, a faint sound cut through the wind's howl – a low whistle, sharp, distinct, carrying a specific cadence. Lunrik froze, every sense instantly on high alert. It wasn't the cry of a mountain bird, nor the sound of wind through ice formations. It was a signal. A Dravenwolf signal. One Kaelith had taught him years ago, used for locating packmates in dense forest or blizzard conditions.
He cautiously peered out from under the overhang, scanning the direction the sound had come from. Nothing. Just swirling snow and ice ridges. He waited, holding his breath.
The whistle came again, slightly closer this time, the same precise cadence. Kaelith. She was alive. She was searching for him.
Relief washed over him, so potent it almost buckled his knees. He resisted the urge to call out, knowing his voice might carry further than intended, potentially alerting enemies. Instead, he replied with the corresponding Dravenwolf signal – two softer, lower whistles, mimicking the call of a specific night owl, indicating his position and confirming he was relatively safe.
He waited again, scanning intently. Minutes stretched. Then, a flicker of movement on a nearby ridge. A grey shadow detaching itself from the ice formations, moving with impossible speed and silence despite the treacherous terrain. Kaelith.
She slid down the last slope, landing lightly near his hiding spot, her knife already sheathed, her expression a mixture of intense relief and sharp assessment as she took in his condition, the bloodstains on his tunic, the spent energy rifle lying beside him.
"Lunrik! By Fenrivar's breath, I thought…" She stopped, shaking her head, reaching out instinctively to grip his arm, her touch firm, grounding. "Are you hurt badly?"
"Ankle twisted, ribs bruised," he admitted, the relief of her presence making the pain seem suddenly more acute. "But alive. The patrol?"
"Gone," he said grimly. "All five. Had to engage." He briefly recounted the desperate fight – the collapsing ice bridge, the snowdrift trap, the sonic blast from the rifle, the final, brutal close-quarters combat.
Kaelith listened silently, her eyes scanning the area where the fight likely occurred, visible further back along their trail. Her expression tightened at the description of the violence, but held no judgment, only a grim understanding of the necessity. "Five Ashfang scouts," she murmured. "Grakkus will know soon they're missing. He'll send out larger parties. We don't have much time."
"Did you see anything?" Lunrik asked. "After we split?"
She nodded. "Circled wide. Found higher ground overlooking the camp. Saw Grakkus organizing search patterns, focusing towards the ice cave initially, then spreading wider when the scouts didn't report back immediately." She paused. "Also saw… tracks. Fainter. Leading away from the Ashfang camp towards the northwest this time, skirting the glacier edge. Different from the ones we followed to the Cog Gate. Different from the hunters."
"More unknowns?" Lunrik felt a fresh wave of weariness. How many factions were converging on this desolate place?
"Maybe," Kaelith said thoughtfully. "Or maybe… survivors from Vorlag's initial party who scattered during the dragon attack? Or… dwarves?" She looked back towards the direction of the Cog Gate, hidden miles away now. "Could Borin have patrols out here too?"
It was impossible to know. The situation grew more complex with every passing hour. "We need to report back to Borin," Lunrik said, touching the communicator. "Confirm Ashfang position, numbers, Grakkus's presence. That fulfills the primary mission."
"And tell him about the five dead scouts?" Kaelith raised an eyebrow.
"Leave that detail out unless directly asked," Lunrik decided. "Just report mission parameters met, intelligence gathered, returning to rendezvous." He activated the device again: one pulse. Status ongoing. Then, after a moment's thought, he sent three pulses – the signal to request Gate reopening upon return. Better to signal their intent now, give the dwarves time, minimize waiting exposed on the ledge later.
"Now we get back," he said, pushing himself stiffly to his feet, leaning on Kaelith momentarily for support. "Before Grakkus realizes exactly where his scouts met their end."
Kaelith nodded, instantly shifting back into pragmatic survival mode. She took the lead again, finding a route back towards the Cog Gate that avoided both the Ashfang camp and the site of Lunrik's fight, moving with renewed urgency. Lunrik followed, pushing through the pain, his spirit buoyed immensely by Kaelith's presence beside him. Her loyalty, her calm competence, felt like the only solid thing in this world of shifting ice, hidden enemies, and treacherous alliances. It was an echo stronger than Alaric's ghostly ambitions, a burden of hope that somehow made the weight of survival easier to bear as they raced the approaching storm and the inevitable Ashfang retribution back towards the sealed threshold of Grimfang Deep.