Three months later, Evan found himself on a mountain path that was less a path and more what you'd get if you asked a goat to design a hiking trail after several glasses of wine.
He trudged upward, lungs burning, boots slipping on ice that definitely hadn't been there three seconds ago. The golden orb—which had refused to stay at the cottage and now followed him everywhere like an overenthusiastic pet—bobbed beside him, casting warm light on the frozen ground.
"I want it on the record," he gasped between breaths, "that I OBJECT to this. I formally OBJECT. Is someone taking minutes? Someone should be taking minutes."
"The record notes your objection," Lydia said calmly, her staff glowing with enough warmth to melt the worst of the ice. She wasn't even breathing hard. Three months of training with the Weaver had made her almost annoyingly competent. "The record also notes that you're the only one who can do this."
"The record is a JERK."
Below them, a goat bleated. It sounded like laughter. Evan was certain it was laughing at him. If goats could laugh. Which they probably could, in this world, because why wouldn't they?
Ashe drifted beside him, more solid now than he'd been three months ago. He'd taken to wearing a cloak to cover his still-somewhat-shadowy form, and he moved with an eerie silence that made even Kael nervous.
"This mountain," Ashe observed, "has opinions about our presence."
"Mountains have opinions about everything," Evan wheezed. "It's a mountain thing."
"Its opinions are... unfriendly."
"That's just its face. Mountains always look unfriendly. It's the eyebrows."
Emma, bringing up the rear, was the only one who seemed genuinely comfortable. She'd adapted to mountain travel like she'd been born to it, picking her way across ice with casual grace. "Remind me again why we're doing this?" she asked.
"Because the kingdom asked nicely," Evan said. "Because there's a dark mage in this fortress who's been threatening the northern villages. Because I'm the only person who can accidentally disarm centuries-old magical traps while complaining about the lack of proper signage."
"Don't forget the coffee situation," Lydia added. "You mentioned the coffee situation."
"The coffee situation is CRITICAL. This mountain has no coffee. This is a failing."
The fortress came into view as they rounded a cliff—a grim, spike-covered monstrosity that looked like someone had asked "what if a mountain got angry and also learned architecture?" It was carved into the cliffside, all sharp angles and dark stone, with towers that leaned at threatening angles and walls that seemed to absorb the weak winter sunlight.
"Charming," Emma said. "Very 'go away or I'll turn you into a decorative ice sculpture.'"
"Six out of ten for intimidation," Evan agreed. "Too many spikes. It's like they couldn't decide what else to do so they just kept adding spikes."
"The spikes are traditional," Lydia said.
"So is dysentery. Doesn't mean I want it on my vacation destination."
They approached the fortress gates. The path leading up to them was lined with runes—glowing, pulsing, clearly magical, clearly designed to kill intruders.
Evan looked at the runes. The runes looked back.
"So," Emma said. "Trap gauntlet?"
"Trap gauntlet." Evan sighed. "Let's get this over with."
He stepped onto the first rune.
It flared to life—glowing red, pulsing with aggressive intent. The mountain held its breath.
Evan looked down at it. The rune flickered. Flickered again. Made a sound like a disappointed sigh.
And died.
"Huh," Evan said. "It just... gave up."
He stepped to the next rune. Same thing. Flare, flicker, fizzle.
By the time he'd walked twenty feet, the entire path looked like a firework display that had run out of enthusiasm. Runes flickered weakly. Traps triggered half-heartedly and then stopped. A single crossbow bolt shot out of a hidden mechanism, wobbled in the air for a moment, and then dropped to the ground with an embarrassed thud.
"They're not even trying," Emma observed.
"I think they're intimidated." Evan patted the wall as he passed. "Good effort, though. Nice try. Participation trophy for everyone."
The fortress doors loomed ahead—massive, iron-banded, probably designed to resist siege weapons.
Evan pushed them open with one hand.
They groaned—not in the threatening way, but in the way of something that had been expecting a fight and got a mild inconvenience instead.
"Well," he said, stepping into the darkness beyond. "Home sweet murder-cave. Let's see what's in the fridge."
***