A year passed like a storm through the mountains—fast, cold, and leaving change in its wake. Adrestus turned twenty, though he barely noticed the birthday. The villagers of Drys had rebuilt their homes, the bandits of the northern passes had learned to avoid the silver‑cloaked warrior, and the name Adrestus had begun to spread beyond the valleys into the lowlands of Thessaly and Macedonia. The system called him Hero, not Regional Hero, and the weight of that title pressed on his shoulders like a cloak.
The red lightning had become a part of him. Not a comfortable part—it was still wild, still hungry, still prone to flickering when his emotions ran hot—but it answered his call more reliably than it had a year ago. He could coat his spear in crimson energy, could form a shield that turned aside arrows, could blast a tree into splinters from fifty paces. The aura drained him, yes, but he had learned to manage it. To conserve. To strike hard and then rest.
But the bow—the simple yew bow Lyra had given him, Thryptō—was no longer enough.
He had felt the limitation during the winter, hunting a pack of wolves that had grown bold from hunger. The wolves were not monsters, not legendary, but they were fast and coordinated. His arrows struck true, but they lacked piercing. The yew bow was a hunter's tool, not a warrior's weapon. Against armored foes, against greater monsters, it would fail.
The dream came on the night of the winter solstice.
He was standing in a hall of ice, the walls carved with scenes of hunting and war. The ceiling was open to a sky of swirling snow, and at the far end of the hall, seated on a throne of frozen oak, sat a figure wrapped in furs and frost. His beard was icicles. His eyes were chips of pale blue. And when he spoke, his breath crystallized in the air.
"You seek a bow."
Adrestus did not ask how the figure knew. In dreams, knowledge was given, not earned.
"I seek a bow that can kill what needs killing."
The figure laughed—a sound like cracking ice. "I am Boreas. Lord of the north wind. My temple lies in the mountains beyond Thrace, where the snow never melts and the harpies nest in my rafters. I have a bow. The finest I ever crafted. I called it Anemothēros —Wind‑Hunter. Its arrows fly faster than sound. They bend to your will. They do not miss."
"What do you want for it?"
Boreas leaned forward. The ice on his throne groaned. "My temple is defiled. Harpies have nested in the inner sanctum, and their filth has choked the hearth where my sacred flame once burned. Cleanse it. Kill the harpies. Relight the flame. And the bow is yours."
The dream dissolved.
Adrestus woke with frost on his eyelashes.
---
The journey took a week. Skotadi flew north and east, past the villages he knew, past the forests he had hunted, into the wild mountains where even bandits feared to tread. The air grew thin and cold. Snow covered the ground year‑round, and the wind never stopped—a constant, keening presence that seemed to whisper warnings in a language he almost understood.
The temple of Boreas was carved into the face of a cliff, its columns crusted with ice, its pediment adorned with frozen statues of winged figures. The entrance was a gaping mouth, dark and cold. Adrestus dismounted, left Skotadi in a sheltered cleft, and walked inside.
The first chamber was vast, its ceiling lost in shadow. The walls were covered in frost, and the floor was slick with black ice. He could hear them before he saw them—the chittering, the flapping of leathery wings, the high‑pitched screeches that passed for speech among harpies. The creatures had nested here for years, perhaps decades. Their droppings covered the altar. Their bones littered the floor.
He counted six. Maybe seven.
The first harpy died before it knew he was there. His arrow—a normal arrow, not yet blessed by Boreas—took it through the throat, and it tumbled from its perch with a wet gurgle. The others screamed and launched into the air, their talons outstretched.
Adrestus dropped his bow and drew his sword. The red lightning surged along the blade, coating it in crimson fire. He had fought harpies before, years ago, when Lyra taught him archery. But those had been lone creatures, desperate and half‑starved. These were healthy, organized, and angry.
The second harpy dove at his face. He sidestepped, slashed, and the red lightning did the rest. The creature's body parted in two, its feathers smoking. The third and fourth came together, one low, one high. Adrestus ducked under the high attack, drove his sword into the low one's chest, and kicked the body into the path of the other. They collided in a tangle of limbs and shrieks. He finished them both with a wide, two‑handed swing.
The fifth tried to flee. He threw his sword—a risky move, but his absolute body control made the throw perfect. The blade spun through the air, red lightning trailing behind it, and buried itself in the harpy's back. The creature crashed into the wall and slid down, leaving a smear of black blood.
The sixth and seventh never showed themselves. He heard them scrabbling deeper in the temple, escaping through a crack in the stone. He let them go. He was not here to exterminate every harpy in Thrace. He was here to cleanse the sanctum.
The inner chamber was smaller, warmer—not warm, but less cold. A stone hearth stood at its center, cold and choked with ash and guano. The walls were lined with offerings that had been left centuries ago: rusted swords, crumbling shields, and, mounted on a pedestal of black marble, the bow.
Anemothēros. Wind‑Hunter.
It was beautiful. The limbs were carved from a single piece of pale wood—yew, but not any yew Adrestus had seen. It shimmered, almost translucent, as if the wood had been petrified and then polished to a glassy sheen. The grip was wrapped in dark leather, worn smooth by the hands of a god. The bowstring was not gut or sinew but something that gleamed like spun silver.
Adrestus cleaned the hearth first. It took an hour of scraping, hauling, and burning away the filth. He gathered dry wood from the temple's broken furniture and struck a spark—not from flint and steel, but from the red lightning. A small, controlled burst. The wood caught, and the flame spread.
The hearth blazed. The light filled the chamber, and for a moment, the temple seemed to breathe.
He turned to the bow. The pedestal had no lock, no trap. Boreas had not asked him to steal the bow; he had asked him to earn it. Adrestus lifted Anemothēros from its resting place. The wood was warm, despite the cold. The bowstring hummed under his fingers, as if it remembered the hands of a god.
He stepped outside into the wind. Boreas's domain welcomed him with a gust that nearly knocked him off his feet. He raised the bow and nocked an arrow—one of his own, not special—and drew.
The draw was heavier than Thryptō, seventy pounds at least, but his body absorbed the weight. He aimed at a boulder two hundred paces away, a boulder the size of a man's chest. He released.
The arrow did not fly straight. It curved—a gentle arc that bent around an outcropping of rock and struck the boulder from the side. Adrestus stared. He had not aimed for the side. He had aimed for the center. The bow had corrected his aim, had guided the arrow around an obstacle he had not even considered.
Wind‑Hunter, Boreas had called it.
He shot again. This time, he aimed off‑target deliberately, aiming at empty air to the left of the boulder. The arrow curved back toward the boulder and struck it dead center.
He laughed. It was a strange sound, raw and unfamiliar—he did not laugh often. But the bow was magic, real magic, and it was his.
The wind rose again, and in the wind, he heard a voice.
"You have earned it, Sky‑Touched. Use it well. The north wind does not favor cowards."
Boreas was gone before Adrestus could reply.
---
He flew home with the bow across his back, Skotadi cutting through the clouds. The stars were bright, the moon full, and the red lightning purred in his chest like a satisfied cat. He summoned the system as the mountains of Thrace fell away behind him.
```
[SYSTEM UPDATE – Age 20]
Public feats detected:
- Cleansed the temple of Boreas (killed five harpies, relit the sacred hearth)
- Claimed the legendary bow "Anemothēros" (Wind‑Hunter)
Witnesses: None (the temple was isolated, and the escaping harpies do not count)
Fame increase calculated: Minimal (no witnesses, but the act itself will be recognized by Boreas and may spread through divine rumor)
Popularity: Hero (unchanged, but recognition among gods increased)
Fame Coins Earned: +1 (for completing a divine trial)
Total Fame Coins: 7 (previous 6 + 1)
No new titles from this chapter.
NEW STATS:
- Strength: 35 → 36
- Speed: 40 → 42
- Agility: 43 → 45
- Magic: 25 → 27 (aura refinement)
SKILL LEVELS (raw proficiency):
- Spearmanship: Journeyman (Level 20 → Level 21)
- Swordsmanship: Journeyman (Level 19 → Level 20)
- Hand‑to‑Hand Combat: Journeyman (Level 25 → Level 26)
- Marksmanship (Bow): Apprentice (Level 22) → Journeyman (Level 25) (major increase from wielding Anemothēros)
- Riding: Journeyman (Level 16 → Level 17)
- Aura Manipulation (Red Lightning): Untrained (Level 5 → Level 8)
BATTLE EXPERIENCE:
- Combat encounters survived: 10 (added harpy nest)
- Significant battles: 5 (hydra, bandit fortress, fire salamander, cyclops, harpy nest)
- Monster kills: 8 (added five harpies)
- Human opponents defeated: 16
- Lethal human kills: 16
- Near‑death experiences: 3
- First divine trial completed: YES (Boreas's temple)
- First legendary artifact acquired: YES (Anemothēros)
System note: The Bow of the North Wind is a legendary weapon. Its properties include:
- Arrows fly significantly faster than normal
- Arrows can curve mid‑flight, guided by the user's intent
- The bow is preternaturally accurate, correcting minor errors in aim
- Requires attunement (you are now attuned)
This bow will serve you well against armored foes and moving targets. It does not enhance your aura or red lightning directly, but it can channel your lightning through arrows (as with your previous bow).
New relationship registered: Boreas (god of the north wind, minor favor granted). He now considers you worthy of his gift. This may prove useful in future winters.
```
Adrestus dismissed the screen and ran his hand along the bow's smooth limb. Anemothēros. Wind‑Hunter. The name felt right.
He was twenty years old. He had a legendary bow, a divine aura, a loyal follower, and a black winged unicorn. The year ahead would be the last before the world began to burn. Kratos was out there, still serving Ares, still unaware of the horror that awaited him. The gods were plotting. The Titans were stirring.
Adrestus looked east, toward the rising sun, and thought of the road ahead.
I'm not ready, he admitted to himself. But I'm closer than I was yesterday.
Skotadi banked left, and they flew toward home.
---
End of Chapter 15