The ravine seemed to shrink around them, walls of jagged stone pressing inward with each passing moment. The air hung thick with a metallic tang, the scent of blood and something else, something rot-sweet and alien.
Dozens of meters. That was all that separated them from the threshold—the invisible wall of howling cold where even the Marauders dared not tread. But those few dozen meters might as well have been leagues, a stretch of broken ground that felt impossibly vast under the weight of pursuit.
"On my mark," Goro whispered.
"Wait."
Silas pressed his back to the ravine wall, breathing slow and shallow to quiet the hammering of his heart. His throat burned with thirst, and the sweat cooling on his skin made him shiver despite the exertion. Across the shallow stream that bisected the ravine floor, shadowed shapes twitched and shifted. Smaller Marauders…or Thralls, wiry and fast, hungry for a chase.
Their grotesque forms hunched and crouched, every joint poised to spring. In the dim light, their milky eyes caught and reflected the meagre moonlight, glowing with a patient, predatory intelligence. But…
The nobleman noticed something: the Thralls were not aware of their presence. Not yet anyway. He judged this because they had not been attacked yet. His previous assessment of being herded into a trap was thankfully disproven.
"I guess we have the cover of darkness to thank."
Still, it would be impossible to cross the threshold without alerting the ugly beasts.
Silas's eyes darted around the narrow gully, mentally cataloguing every feature. A fallen branch here, a loose stone there. His weathered hands flexed, craving the weight of a weapon. He grimaced, teeth bared in a silent snarl. They had no actual weapons. No magic. No time.
Goro crouched behind him, the big man's breathing coming in measured pulls despite the burden he carried. One massive arm cradled Rhys against his chest, the boy limp and feverish. Occasionally, his limbs would twitch with involuntary spasms.
"We need a distraction," Silas whispered, his voice barely audible over the soft gurgle of the stream. The words scraped against his dry throat.
Without waiting for an answer, he stooped, gathering a handful of jagged rocks, the sharp edges biting into his palm. He hefted one, judging its weight, then hurled it across the ravine as hard as he could, muscles in his shoulder protesting the sudden movement.
The stone clattered against the far wall with a sharp, echoing crack that seemed to splinter the silence.
The effect was immediate. Several of the creatures snapped their heads toward the sound, their grotesque bodies shifting and scattering toward the noise. Their movements were jerky yet precise, like broken machinery operated by an unseen hand.
Silas didn't wait. He hissed over his shoulder:
"Move!"
Goro surged forward, transferring Rhys to his back in one fluid motion. The boy hung there like a rag doll, arms dangling loosely over Goro's broad shoulders. For all his bulk, the big man moved with a hunter's grace, his steps silent despite his size, keeping his centre of gravity low. Silas flanked him, eyes sharp, scanning ahead for obstacles—or worse, an ambush.
The cold stones beneath their feet were slick with moisture, threatening to betray them with every step. The stream water soaked into their clogs, numbing their toes and making each footfall a calculated risk.
For a brief, precious moment, they moved unhindered.
Silas kept them low to the streambed, using the jagged rocks and outcroppings as cover. He picked their route carefully, spotting narrow gaps and natural choke points where fewer creatures prowled. His joints ached with the constant stooping, but years of being a fugitive from the Empire had taught him how to move through hostile territory. Every few steps, he would pause, listening to the night, feeling the air currents against his weathered face.
They were halfway across the ravine when everything went wrong.
A shriek split the night; high, shrill, and maddened, like metal scraping against bone. It raised the hairs on Silas's neck and sent a jolt of primal fear down his spine.
One of the smaller Marauders had spotted them. Then another. And another. Their calls echoed off the ravine walls, multiplying, becoming a chorus of hunger and rage.
The pack surged forward like a black tide, their bodies flowing over the uneven ground with unnatural speed.
Silas cursed under his breath, tasting bitter fear on his tongue.
Goro spun around, his face a mask of controlled tension. He placed Rhys down gently behind a jagged stone slab, arranging the boy's limbs with unexpected tenderness. Rhys remained unconscious, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven bursts. His lips were cracked and slightly parted, faint plumes of steam escaping with every ragged breath into the night air.
Goro gripped his makeshift club; just a thick tree branch, really. He took a defensive stance over Rhys's prone form, legs braced wide, shoulders hunched forward.
Silas could see the calculation in Goro's eyes; the big man was already assessing which creatures to engage first, how to keep them away from the boy.
Silas moved to intercept the first two Marauders. They were fast, scuttling forward with spider-like grace, their too-many joints bending in ways that made his stomach turn. He picked up another rock, larger this time, feeling its weight settle into his palm, the edges digging into flesh already raw from climbing.
The closest creature lunged, a blur of flesh and glinting claws. Silas pivoted, then smashed the rock square into the creature's jaw. Bone crunched beneath the blow, and black ichor sprayed across his forearm, burning where it touched his skin. The Marauder staggered, hissing, but another was already lunging past it, teeth bared in a mouth that split open far wider than it should.
A blur of movement—Goro swung his branch in a brutal arc, the muscles in his shoulders bunching with the effort. The wood connected with the creature's torso mid-air, the impact sending a shudder through Goro's arms. The branch creaked but held as the Marauder's malformed spine snapped with a sickening crack. The creature slammed into the ravine wall and slid down, twitching.
They fought like cornered wolves, every movement economical, fuelled by the desperate knowledge that hesitation meant death.
But it wasn't enough.
From the darkness, a third Marauder darted forward, moving low and fast. Goro saw it too late, his attention split between defending Rhys and watching Silas's flank. Long, serrated claws raked down Goro's thigh, slicing through fabric and flesh with horrible ease.
The giant grunted, a sound more of surprise than pain, and staggered. His right leg nearly buckled, but he caught himself, driving the end of his branch into the creature's chest with enough force to splinter the wood. Blood darkened his torn trousers almost immediately, soaking the fabric and dripping onto the stones below. In the cold air, steam rose from the fresh wound.
Silas ducked under a wild swipe from another Marauder, feeling claws whisper past his ear. He dropped low, ignoring the protest of his aging knees, and kicked the creature's legs out from under it. Before it could recover, he brought a fist-sized stone down in a savage, two-handed blow. The creature's skull caved with a wet crunch. Black fluid spattered Silas's face, bitter and burning in his nose.
Breathing hard, ribs aching with each inhale, Silas turned to see Goro struggling to hoist Rhys again. The big man's movements were slower now, laboured, as he tried to lift the boy without putting weight on his wounded leg. Blood flowed freely from the gash, turning the streambed crimson wherever he stepped.
The blood trail would give them away. Even worse, in the frigid air, Goro would weaken quickly with that kind of blood loss.
They had no choice but to push forward.
Silas led, carving a path toward the threshold, eyes constantly scanning for danger. Every shadow seemed to writhe with potential threats. Behind him, Goro limped, each step becoming heavier than the last. Rhys was a dead weight on his back, the boy's head lolling against Goro's shoulder with each jarring step.
The air grew colder as they neared the boundary, the mist from the tundra beyond swirling around their feet, numbing their toes through sodden shoes. The threshold was so close now—close enough that Silas could almost feel the way it pulled at the very marrow of his bones, an ancient magic that whispered of endings and beginnings.
And then disaster struck.
A knot of creatures spilled down the ravine walls ahead, claws scrabbling on stone as they descended with horrifying speed and precision. They landed in a semi-circle, cutting off the path to the threshold. Silas skidded to a halt, boots sliding on the slick stones. He looked back—and saw even more Thralls approaching from behind, slinking forward with predatory patience, their movements coordinated in a way that sent ice through his veins.
They were surrounded.
Silas felt his heart hammering against his ribs; each beat a desperate plea for survival. His muscles burned with fatigue, and he could taste copper in the back of his throat. A quick glance showed Goro faring no better; the giant's face had gone ashen, and a sheen of cold sweat glistened on his brow. The leg wound was worse than it had first appeared. Blood saturated his trouser leg entirely now, dripping steadily to form small, steaming pools at his feet.
Goro shifted, preparing to defend again, but the grimace that crossed his face said everything. He couldn't fight and carry Rhys at the same time. Not anymore. Each movement sent fresh rivulets of blood down his leg, and the makeshift club trembled slightly in his grip.
Silas saw it, too. The brutal arithmetic of survival clarified in that moment of crisis.
In that heartbeat of frozen time, Goro made a decision.
Silas recognized the look in his eyes, a look that people had when pushed to their absolute limit. It was not resignation, but something fiercer, a determination that transcended pain, that burned away hesitation.
Goro roared—a deep, primal sound that echoed off the ravine walls and momentarily froze the advancing Marauders. With a swift movement, he swung Rhys from his back and into his arms.
The boy's head rolled back, face ghastly pale in the dim light. For a moment, Goro looked down at him, something indescribable passing across his face, before he summoned every ounce of his remaining strength and hurled Rhys forward toward the threshold.
The boy's body arced through the cold mist, limbs trailing limply. For a heartbeat, he seemed suspended, caught between worlds.
And then he crossed the threshold in a flash of distorted air, a ripple passing through reality itself.
There was a snap; like a bubble bursting; and Rhys vanished into the white void beyond.
He was safe for now. As safe as he could be in a frozen hell.
Goro, unburdened, turned back toward the swarm. Fresh blood welled from his leg wound, but his stance widened, stabilizing. Silas caught the big man's eye across the intervening space. No words passed between them, but understanding did. A lifetime of communication distilled into a single, grim nod.
Without a word, they launched into the fray together.