Chapter 96: Frostbite and Forgotten Graves
The Ascent into Agony
The mountain's iron spine devoured days.
Bennett's hands blistered beneath his gloves, his face a raw canvas of peeling flesh. Every gasp of frigid air felt like swallowing glass. By the second afternoon, even his bones ached—a deep, marrow-deep cold that no fire could thaw.
"Why… can't… we… fly?" he wheezed, collapsing against the cliffside.
Hussein snorted, his own face a patchwork of frostbite. "Dragons guard the skies. Even Aragorn climbed on foot. Be grateful they're letting us breathe."
Medusa slithered past, unbothered. Her serpentine scales shimmered faintly—a biological armor against the cold. Of course the snake-woman's fine, Bennett thought bitterly. Snakes don't get sunburns.
The Lies of Geography
Nightfall brought no relief.
The snow's reflected glare stabbed at Bennett's eyes even through Dardanelle's makeshift "sunglasses"—two smoke-stained quartz lenses tied with twine. Like staring into a shattered mirror, he mused. A shattered mirror made of knives.
Around the mage's conjured fire—a flickering orb of orange hovering above bare stone—the old druid unraveled another layer of myth.
"The northern wastes…" he rasped, warming skeletal hands. "…are a prison. Not of ice, but of shame. The gods cast out entire civilizations there—races who worshipped machines, or flesh-twisting magics, or…"
"Or what?" Hussein pressed.
The druid's silence stretched. Above, a dragon's cry split the dark.
Bennett's Heresy
"What if they're wrong?"
The words slipped out unbidden. Bennett stared northward, where the mountain's shadow swallowed the horizon. "What if it's not a 'prison' at all? What if… it's just land? Another continent, like Roland, waiting beyond the pole?"
Hussein stiffened. "Blasphemy."
"Is it?" Bennett's cracked lips twisted. "Imagine this world as a sphere. If we kept marching north past the coldest point, we'd eventually start heading south on the other side. The climate would warm. Rivers might flow. Whole civilizations could—"
"Enough." The druid's staff sparked. "Speak this madness again, and the dragons will be the least of your worries."
Whispers in the Ice
Dawn revealed the truth beneath the snow.
While scavenging firewood (a futile gesture; everything flammable had petrified centuries ago), Bennett spotted it—a glint of silver wedged into a jagged obsidian spire below.
"What's that?"
Through his improvised telescope—a frozen cloth rolled into a tube—the horror clarified:
The First Corpse
Physique: Hulking torso, arms longer than a man is tall, legs stubby and thick as tree trunks.
Armor: Plated in blackened metal etched with spirals—no Rolandic design.
Anomaly: The skull had been twisted off, vertebrae protruding like broken teeth.
"Over there!" Medusa hissed.
A second spire. A second body—this one delicate, almost avian, its three-fingered hands still clutching a jeweled dagger.
Patterns Emerge:
All corpses faced north.
All lacked heads.
All wore armor or robes of alien craftsmanship—geometric, brutal, wrong.
The Druid's Terror
"We shouldn't be seeing this." The old man backed away, eyes wild. "The wardens… they cleanse trespassers. These are… leftovers. Warnings."
Hussein kicked a frozen helm. It shattered to reveal not steel, but a lightweight alloy unknown to Roland's smiths. "Who were they? Raiders from the north?"
"Not raiders." Bennett knelt beside a slender corpse—female?—her ribcage cradling a fist-sized crystal still pulsing faintly. "Explorers. Like us."
The druid lunged, smashing the crystal with his staff. "Don't touch anything! Do you want their curse?!"
The Unseen Watchers
As night deepened, the mountain's song changed.
Ominous Signs:
The fire dimmed inexplicably, as if something leeched its heat.
Medusa's snakes grew agitated, hissing at empty air.
Distant clanking echoed up the cliffs—metallic, rhythmic, unmistakably mechanical.
Bennett gripped his staff, demonic energy coiling in his gut. "We're being hunted."
"Not hunted." The druid's face had gone ashen. "Tested. The wardens allow no witnesses. Whatever killed these fools…"
A boulder exploded above. Through the dust, silhouettes moved—sleek, insectoid, wielding blades that hummed with violet light.
"Run!" Hussein roared.
But the path ahead had vanished.
A Choice in the Void
Trapped between cliff and abyss, Bennett did the unthinkable—he grabbed the nearest headless corpse and pushed.
The ancient body toppled into darkness. Seconds later, a deafening crunch echoed upward—metal shearing through bone.
"They're below us!" Bennett shouted. "Climb the spires! Now!"
The Escape:
Medusa's Agility: She scaled the obsidian spikes effortlessly, anchoring ropes with her tail.
Hussein's Strength: The knight hurled Bennett upward like a ragdoll.
The Druid's Sacrifice: As a blade-wielding shadow lunged, he unleashed a volcanic eruption of fire magic—searing his own flesh to buy seconds.
At dawn, they regrouped on a precarious ledge. Below, the mechanical hunters retreated, their forms blurring into the snow like mirages.
"They'll return," Medusa warned.
Bennett stared at the pulsating crystal shard he'd secretly pocketed. "Let them."
The Mountain's Secret
Higher they climbed. The corpses multiplied—entire battalions fossilized in ice, their headless ranks frozen mid-retreat. Among them lay stranger things:
A Chariot: No horses. Just a hollow metal sphere studded with blackened lenses.
A Banner: Emblazoned with a seven-armed star, its colors unnervingly vivid after centuries.
A Journal: Pages of flexible glass, etched with glowing symbols that rearranged themselves when touched.
"Turn back," the druid begged. "Whatever Aragorn left here isn't worth this."
Bennett opened the journal. The symbols resolved into a map—a land beyond the pole, lush and green, dotted with cities shaped like spirals.
"Too late," he whispered. "They know we've seen it."
Above, the dragons began to scream.
Chapter 97 (Part 1): The Sentinel's Riddle
The Bones of Exile
The wind howled through the skeletal remains littering the mountain's northern slope—a graveyard of giants frozen mid-flight. Bennett knelt, brushing frost from a clawed hand twice the size of his torso. Its owner had died crawling toward Roland, not away.
"You see now?" The old mage's voice trembled with ancient dread. "Two hundred years ago, Samael and I stood here. Even then, these bones whispered of failure."
Bennett traced the spiral engravings on a shattered breastplate. "They tried to come home."
"Home?" The mage laughed bitterly. "The gods erased their home. These were exiles—races who dared defy divine order. The dragons slaughtered them here, at the final gate." His staff glowed faintly, illuminating a skull fused to ice. "Beyond this mountain lies the Forgotten Tundra, then the Frostfang Forest. No mortal army could cross such hellscapes. Not even them."
"Yet they tried." Bennett straightened, squinting at the summit. "Why?"
"Because hope is a poison." The mage's gaze darkened. "And the north… it whispers."
The Dragon's Gate
Three days of agony brought them to the peak—a jagged crown of obsidian veined with dragonfire. Above, winged shadows circled like vultures.
"Finally." The black-scaled sentinel descended, talons screeching against stone. Its voice rattled Bennett's teeth. "The Patriarch grows impatient. Move."
The cavern entrance yawned before them, its walls studded with glittering treasures—rubies the size of fists, gold coins fused into stalactites, swords crusted with diamond dust. Dragons and their hoards, Bennett thought wryly. Some clichés hold true.
Deeper within, the air thickened with sulfur and the musk of scales. They halted before a gargantuan iron door, its surface etched with warnings in a language that made Bennett's eyes water. Beside it slept a dragon larger than a warship, its snores quaking the earth.
The old mage approached fearlessly. "Awake, Sentinel! Your Patriarch expects us."
The dragon's eyelid slid open, revealing a slit pupil glowing like molten gold. "You." It exhaled a plume of smoke that singed Bennett's eyebrows. "The stench of human arrogance hasn't faded in two centuries."
Hussein's hand flew to his sword hilt, but the mage waved him off. "We come under the terms of the Accord. Open the gate."
The dragon's laugh shook the mountain. "The Accord demands a toll. Wisdom before passage. Fail my trial, and your bones join the others."
The Trial of Tongues
Bennett stepped forward, heart pounding. "What trial?"
"A battle of minds, little meatling." The Sentinel loomed, its breath reeking of charred meat. "Three riddles. Two victories. Lose, and I snack on your livers."
Hussein muttered a curse, but the old mage grinned. "Relax. Last time, I stumped it with a question about turnips."
Bennett ignored them, locking eyes with the beast. "Ask."
"You ask me." The dragon's tail thumped excitedly. "Stump the Sentinel, and glory awaits. Fail, and—"
"Let's skip the theatrics." Bennett's smile sharpened. "Riddle one: A thousand houses stand in a row. The first holds one soul, the second two, the third three—each subsequent home adding one more. How many souls dwell in total when you reach the thousandth house?"
The Sentinel froze. Its claws flexed, gouging craters in the stone.
The Silence
Hussein mouthed numbers, brow furrowing.
The old mage stifled a chuckle.
Medusa's snakes swayed in apparent boredom.
"Well?" Bennett pressed.
"This… this is arithmetic!" the dragon roared. "Beneath my dignity!"
"Ah, but wisdom recognizes when brute force fails." Bennett bowed mockingly. "Shall I solve it for you? The sum equals (n(n+1))/2. For n=1000, that's 500,500. Or would you prefer I tally each house aloud? Might take a few centuries."
The Sentinel's growl deepened. "Clever meat. Next riddle."
"My turn," the old mage interjected. "What belongs to you but is used most by others?"
"A name!" The dragon spat triumphantly.
"Wrong. A secret."
The beast recoiled as if struck. "Trickery! Human filth with your twisted—"
"Enough." A new voice echoed through the cavern—older, colder, laced with power that stiffened Bennett's spine. "Let them pass, Sentinel. Their insolence amuses me."
The iron door groaned open, revealing darkness stitched with crimson runes.
"Welcome," hissed the Dragon Patriarch from the void beyond, "to the Vault of Broken Promises."
Chapter 97 (Part 2): The Jester's Gambit
The Arithmetic of Arrogance
The dragon's claws scraped furiously against the stone floor as it counted, its yellow eyes darting between fingers and toes. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. By the hundredth house, its talons trembled with rage.
Bennett bit his lip, shoulders shaking. "Struggling, Your Magnificence?"
"Lies!" The Sentinel's roar dislodged icicles from the ceiling. "No mortal structure holds a thousand souls! This riddle is rotten!"
"Human palaces defy your cramped imagination," Bennett drawled, sketching numbers in frost. "Shall I teach you summation? n(n+1)/2. For n=1000…" He paused, savoring the dragon's twitching snout. "Five hundred thousand, five hundred. Or would you prefer I count aloud? Might take until next winter solstice."
The beast's wings flared, casting the cavern into shadow. "Sorcery! Trickery! You—"
"Honor your vow," Bennett snapped, meeting its glare. "Or does dragon pride mean nothing?"
A sulfurous growl rumbled through the chamber. The Sentinel slumped, defeated. "Pass, insect. But you—" It whirled on the old mage, fangs dripping. "No riddles this time! Last chance to flee!"
The mage grinned. "Ten rounds of Scissors, Stone, Cloth. Win once, and victory is yours."
Bennett's laughter died as the dragon raised a claw—two stubby talons forever locked in "scissors."
Oh, you brilliant bastard.
The Patriarch's Masquerade
The iron gate creaked open, revealing a path lined with gemstones that pulsed like cursed hearts. Medusa's snakes hissed at the walls; Hussein's hand never left his sword.
"That dragon's a toddler in scales," Bennett muttered.
"A toddler who razed three kingdoms," the old mage replied. "Never mock a creature that outlives empires."
The tunnel narrowed into a cavernous hall, its crude grandeur mocking human architecture. At its center sat a throne-sized chair, occupied by a figure so unremarkable it unsettled Bennett more than any monster.
The Dragon Patriarch slouched like a bored librarian, his patched robe hanging loose. One shattered horn crowned his brow—a jagged scar running down to his temple. His eyes, dull as tarnished copper, flicked over them.
"You've brought… this?" The Patriarch's voice was a whetstone dragged over rust. "The boy reeks of demon tricks and borrowed time."
Bennett stiffened. Borrowed time?
The old mage stepped forward. "He bears the bloodline. The key."
"Bloodlines break." The Patriarch rose, movements languid yet precise. "Aurion's vault devours pretenders. Last fool who tried…" He tapped his broken horn. A faint sizzle echoed, as if the air itself recoiled.
Medusa's voice cut through the tension. "You fought Aurion and lived?"
"Fought? No." The Patriarch smiled, revealing teeth filed flat. "I tested him. He passed. Barely."
Bennett's throat went dry. Aurion—the half-mythic warrior-mage—had nearly lost to this… this shabby librarian?
The Weight of Shadows
The Patriarch vanished into a side tunnel, returning with an iron coffer etched with eyes that followed Bennett's every breath. Inside lay a dagger forged from black ice, its edge humming with dissonant magic.
"The Key of Whispers," the Patriarch crooned. "Stab it into the vault's heart. If Aurion's ghost approves…" He trailed off, gaze lingering on Bennett's trembling hands.
The old mage gripped Bennett's shoulder. "Focus. This isn't a blade to fear, but a—"
"—a key that eats souls," the Patriarch finished cheerfully. "Two failed attempts left shrieking husks. Third time's the charm, yes?"
Medusa stepped between them, her serpents baring fangs. "You withhold truths, mage."
Before the old man could respond, the Patriarch laughed—a sound like bones tumbling down cliffs. "Truth? Aurion didn't hide treasures here. He imprisoned them. That blade doesn't unlock doors…" He leaned close, his breath smelling of petrified wood. "It wakes what sleeps."
Bennett's vision swam. The dagger's hilt burned colder than the mountain's heart. Somewhere deep below, something ancient shifted in its chains.
The Patriarch's whisper slithered into his ear: "Run now, little keyholder. The vault hungers."
But the path forward had already sealed behind them.