Snow crunched under Ivor's boots with a dull, stubborn rhythm—step, drag, step, drag. The body behind him carved a shallow trench through the white, its weight resisting every pull as if the mountain itself refused to let it go. Frost had already begun to claim it, stiffening limbs into something less human, more like a discarded statue being hauled back to judgment.
The wind howled down from the peaks above, sweeping across the fortress-city carved into the mountainside. Four levels, stacked like the will of a tyrant made stone. At the summit loomed the castle—distant, silent, watching. Below it, the third level spread wide with the estates of nobles, their banners snapping sharply in the cold. Beneath that, the second level bristled with barracks and iron discipline, where soldiers moved like parts of a single machine. And at the base, the first level—the city square and the citizens—huddled together in smoke and survival.
Ivor moved upward through it all.
He crossed the first level square without pause. Eyes followed him—shopkeepers, children, laborers—but no one spoke. The sound of the dragging body said enough. Behind him, the convoy of women advanced in quiet formation. Their steps were softer than his, but no less certain. Cloaked in furs and dark cloth, they moved like a shadow stretched long across the snow, their faces hidden, their silence heavier than the wind.
Some carried weapons. Others carried nothing at all.
None of them hesitated.
As Ivor climbed toward the second level, soldiers stationed along the ascent stiffened. Hands hovered near hilts, but none dared interfere. Whether it was the corpse, the man dragging it, or the procession behind him—something in that scene unsettled even trained warriors. They parted without command, creating a path that hadn't been granted, only taken.
Step, drag.
The body struck a ridge of stone, jolting. Ivor didn't look back. His grip tightened, jaw set, breath steaming through the freezing air. Snow gathered on his shoulders, on his hair, on the unmoving figure behind him—but he carried on as if neither cold nor weight mattered anymore.
By the time he reached the third level, the world had grown quieter. Nobles watched from balconies and behind frosted glass, their curiosity restrained by unease. The city square here was broader, cleaner, but it too fell silent as Ivor crossed it. The women followed, their presence turning heads, their unity raising questions no one dared voice aloud.
Above them all, the castle waited.
Close now.
The final ascent loomed—steeper, narrower, carved directly into the mountain's spine. The wind screamed louder here, as if warning or welcoming. Ivor didn't slow. The body dragged harder across the stone, leaving behind a broken trail of snow and frost.
Step.
Drag.
Step.
Drag.
The gates of the castle stood ahead—tall, iron-bound, unyielding.
With one last breath he let go of the rope and placed both hands on the doors, using his superhuman strength to push them aside with ease.
Before him, stood an almost empty room except for the throne and the man that sat motionless on top of it.
"I see you made it back safely Snowflake. Tell me what news you bring this time?" the king asked in a low, thunderous voice.
"I bring a dozen women and one dead priest, my lord," Ivor responded taking a knee.
In fear, all the women followed suit. The king remained silent for a moment, letting the tension settle into Ivor's body.
"And what of Fenrir, have you found him yet?" he asked in a steady but tense tone.
"I have yet to find him, my lord," Ivor responded, hesitation in his voice.
"Very well. Women, head down this hall," he points to a door on his left side, "you shall meet my wife down there. Tell her i sent you and she will know the rest," he ordered.
Ivor stayed still as he heard the girls scurry off leaving him and the king alone in the throne room.
"Rise, descendant of Faust. You're not finished, " the king ordered once more.
Ivor slowly got to his feet, still keeping his head low before standing upright. With one last exhale he raised his head and met the king's gaze.
"As for Sylvio, for now I have nothing but the fact he is involved with the church of Fenrir," Ivor responded.
The king sighed, "You search as though this man did not murder your entire bloodline,"
Ivor flinched and clenched his fists.
"None the less, I fear I am at fault for that. Dismissed," said the king as he rested his head into his left hand.
Ivor stood before him still clutching his fists till they turned ghostly pale. His teeth grinded against each other like ice cracking under pressure.
" Thank you, My lord. "