Kael's body hit the floor with a sound like breaking kindling.
For a heartbeat, the world went silent. No screams from the terrified families. No crackling of Lyra's dark magic. No distant sounds of battle from outside. Just... silence.
Alph stared at his friend's face. Kael's eyes were still open, still looking at him across the room. That crooked smile he'd tried to manage was frozen now, painted in blood. The boy who'd pelted him with berries from the oak tree. Who'd drunk terrible soup just to keep him company. Who'd always been the first to laugh, the first to include a confused stranger in their games.
Gone.
The word echoed in Alph's mind, bouncing around an emptiness that was growing larger by the second. Gone. Gone. Gone.
He'd failed. For all his power, all his secret knowledge, all his careful plans—he'd failed the one thing that mattered. Protecting the people he loved.
Lyra's mad giggle cut through the silence as she turned toward Astrid and Emil, dark magic already coalescing around her fingers. "Who's next? The pretty one? Or perhaps the quiet boy in the corner?"
That's when something inside Alph didn't just break.
It shattered.
The grief didn't transform into rage—it became something beyond human emotion entirely. Something arctic and absolute. His mana core, already strained from the earlier fight, cracked under the impossible pressure as he drew not just the available energy, but the very foundation of his power itself.
"No."
The word came out layered with harmonics that shouldn't exist in a human throat. Frost erupted from him in a perfect circle, flash-freezing the stone floor, but this wasn't his controlled ice magic.
In the air before him, silver-blue fire traced impossible patterns. A rune materialized—not carved or written, but existing—massive and complex beyond mortal comprehension. Each burning line contained the fundamental concept of absolute cold, of ending, of the space between stars where nothing lived.
Lyra's laughter died as the temperature plummeted twenty degrees in an instant. She tried to move, to cast, to flee.
The rune pulsed once.
Every drop of blood in the room became crimson ice. The pool on the floor froze solid with a sound like breaking glass. The blood on Valerius's lips, seeping from his shattered arm, the life essence Lyra had been channeling—all of it crystallized instantly. Both invaders became statues of red ice, their expressions locked in eternal surprise and madness.
The rune flickered and died.
Alph collapsed as his consciousness fled, his empty core screaming in protest. The last thing he saw was Kael's still form, that attempted smile forever frozen on his face.
"Lay down your weapons!" Ben's voice cut through the mountain air with the authority of a man who'd just systematically dismantled an enemy force. "Your captain is unconscious, your squad is broken. Surrender now and you live."
The two Fighters and the lone Thief struggled weakly against Mark's vines, their earlier bravado replaced by the hollow-eyed look of defeated men. One of the Fighters—a scarred veteran who'd helped bring down the Treant—spat blood into the snow.
"We yield," he rasped. "Just... just get these damn plants off us."
Borin kept his bow drawn, arrow still nocked, his weathered face grim with exhaustion. Blood seeped through his sleeve where a crossbow bolt had grazed him, and his eyes held the haunted look of a man who'd nearly watched his home burn. Too close. Far too close.
Mark gestured, and the vines loosened enough for the survivors to breathe freely while still keeping them secure. "They're not going anywhere," he reported to Ben.
Celeste surveyed the aftermath with clinical detachment, her robes somehow still pristine despite the magical devastation she'd unleashed. "Fifteen attackers. Twelve confirmed dead, three captured alive, one unconscious leader. Clean engagement." There was unmistakable satisfaction in her voice—the pride of someone whose theoretical training had just proven devastatingly effective.
"Professional work," Ben agreed, wiping his blade before sheathing it. His breathing was steady despite the intensity of the fight—Lumina training at its finest.
Torsten stood frozen among the carnage, his face white as fresh snow. Bodies of men who'd nearly killed him lay scattered across the battlefield—some twisted by Celeste's magic, others pierced by arrows or cut down by steel. His hands shook as he stared at what remained of the force that had hunted him down the mountain.
"They're really dead," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. "All of them."
But his relief curdled when his gaze found Hemlock.
The elder druid lay crumpled in the bloodstained snow, his left arm bent at an impossible angle, breath coming in shallow, pained gasps. Mark knelt beside him, green light flowing from his hands into the broken man's form.
"How bad?" Borin asked, his bow finally lowering as he rushed to his teacher's side.
"Severe," Mark replied, sweat beading on his forehead from the effort of keeping Hemlock stable. "Multiple fractures, internal bleeding, massive mana exhaustion. He pushed far beyond his limits." The young druid's voice was tight with strain. "I can keep him alive, but he needs proper healing. Soon."
Elara dropped to her knees beside them, Iska limping after her with the wolf's injury bound in torn cloth. "Teacher?" Her voice cracked with barely controlled fear.
Hemlock's ancient eyes opened, focusing on her with effort. "The... villagers," he wheezed. "Are they...?"
"We don't know yet," Ben said, his attention already turning toward the meeting hall. "That's our next priority."
"There are healing salves in the hall," Elara said urgently, her eyes never leaving Hemlock's pale face. "Stronger ones than what we have here. Teacher keeps his best supplies there for emergencies."
Mark looked up from his healing work, recognizing the name from Torsten's briefings. This was the legendary druid Torsten had told them about—the village's protector and spiritual leader. "I can stabilize him, but you're right. He needs more than field magic."
"Can you move him?" Ben asked, stepping closer. The village defenders might not know their names, but the shared battle had earned mutual trust.
The young druid nodded grimly. "If we're careful. But every minute we delay..."
"Then we go now," Borin said, already moving to help lift his teacher. The Ranger glanced at Torsten with gratitude—these strangers had saved their lives. "Trader, grab his legs. Gently."
Torsten snapped out of his shocked stupor, rushing to help. Together, they carefully lifted Hemlock between them, the elder druid's breathing growing more labored with each movement.
The group began making their way toward the meeting hall, the building sitting against the cliff face with light still glowing through the barricaded windows. The villagers inside would be terrified, listening to every sound, waiting for word that it was safe.
As they approached the heavy wooden door, Borin called out with the authority of the village's protector. "Open up! It's Borin! The mercenaries are defeated! We need to get Teacher Hemlock inside—he's badly hurt!"
Silence.
The lack of response sent ice through everyone's veins. These people knew Borin's voice. They should have been scrambling to move barricades, calling out questions, rushing to help their wounded elder.
"Something's wrong," Elara whispered, her face going pale.
Torsten stepped forward, his voice cutting through the mountain air with desperate urgency. "It's Torsten! I'm back! I brought help like I promised!" He pressed closer to the door. "Open up! Teacher Hemlock is badly wounded—we need those healing supplies now!"
The familiar voice of their trader—the man who'd risked everything to fetch aid—broke through whatever paralysis had gripped those inside. Immediately, frantic sounds erupted from beyond the door. The crash of tables being shoved aside with desperate haste. The clatter of benches thrown out of the way.
"Thank the mountain," Elara breathed, relief flooding her voice as the barricades came down with urgent speed.
The movements were hurried—frantic even—but no voices accompanied the work. No calls of "Is it really over?" or "How badly is Teacher hurt?" Just the desperate scraping and banging of people working in absolute silence.
Ben's frown deepened, his hand instinctively checking his weapon despite the battle being won.
The barricades crashed aside one after another—fast, urgent work by people who understood the emergency.
The last heavy table scraped away with a final thud. The door swung open immediately.
The door swung open to reveal Leif, Kael's older brother. His face was white as bone, eyes red-rimmed and wild. He looked at the group carrying Hemlock, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air.
"Leif?" Torsten said, alarmed by the young man's appearance. "What—"
"He's... Kael is..." Leif's voice cracked. He stepped back, gesturing them inside with shaking hands. "Come in, quickly, but... but you need to know..."
"What happened?" Elara demanded, nearly dropping her end of Hemlock's makeshift stretcher.
"Dead," Leif whispered, the word barely audible. "Two of them got inside. They... Kael tried to..." His voice broke entirely, tears streaming down his cheeks.
As they crossed the threshold, the cold hit them like a physical blow. Not mountain chill—something deeper, more wrong. Frost covered every surface in delicate, impossible patterns.
"Sweet merciful gods," Borin breathed, his eyes taking in the scene.
Two figures stood frozen in the center of the room—not carved from stone, but ice. Crimson ice that gleamed with trapped blood. Around the edges of the hall, villagers huddled in shocked silence, their faces bearing the hollow look of people who'd witnessed something beyond comprehension.
And there, near the far wall, a small form lay still.
"Kael," Leif sobbed, pointing with a trembling finger.