Chapter 26

  The Fold moved out at first light.

  No announcement. No ceremonious words. Their departure was as quiet as the fog slipping across the riverbanks, a line of disciplined bodies and patient horses threading through the woods of the Withering Yew. Only the soft clatter of packed gear, the scrape of wheels over roots, and the distant creak of harnesses marked the rhythm of their exodus.

  Ash moved among them, unremarkable and methodical. He did not linger at the fire or pause to watch the Fold march away; there was no need. The tasks that awaited him were practical, and that was enough. He helped pack up what could be carried: bundles of cloth, poles, weapons, and the scattered remnants of camp life. Every movement was deliberate. Every item counted. He stacked supplies, bound them tight, and watched the horses adjust their loads with quiet efficiency.

  Hagrin approached only once, moving through the organized chaos with that measured, almost silent authority he carried so easily. Ash was tightening the straps on a pack when Hagrin stopped, letting the shadow of his broad frame fall over him.

  “Do not put your personal belongings with the rest,” Hagrin said. His tone carried an odd mixture of command and apology. “You will not be coming to the swamp with them. I have something else in mind for you.”

  Ash did not flinch. He had known this already. Even before the words, he had recognized the pattern—the subtle divergence of responsibility, the careful placement of control. Yet he allowed Hagrin the moment to speak. Let him tell Ash what he wanted to, in his own time.

  “I understand,” Ash said simply. There was no question in his voice, no protest, no relief. Only recognition.

  Hagrin’s jaw tightened, a flicker of unease passing over his features. He inclined his head and moved on, leaving Ash to finish the loading with steady hands. The carriage had already been hitched to a single, massive horse, its muscles corded and tense, ready for a journey that would test it as surely as any rider. Ash noted its strength, stored the observation, and continued his work.

  By midday, the Fold had settled into their rhythm of travel. The long lines of horses, packs, and men moved in practiced silence. Hagrin and Kaelreth, unusually close together, fell back slightly from the main ranks. Ash watched them, sensing the subtle shift in pace, and when the Fold had begun to thin in the distance, he followed.

  The direction they now took was no longer toward the swamp.

  It was toward the mountain.

  Ash let his mind wander, as it always did when danger drew near. He had heard the stories in whispered fragments—rumors passed from one mercenary to the next, from traveler to traveler. Some spoke of the mountain as cursed, others as a place of infinite wealth or unimaginable horror. The consistent detail across all accounts was simple and terrifying: no one who ventured there ever returned.

  Ash considered the weight of that claim carefully. There were too many possibilities, too many variations. But he was not afraid. He was never afraid. Fear, he had learned long ago, was merely an acknowledgment of unknown variables. It was data, not a verdict. And he could work with data.

  His attention shifted to the carriage. It was empty now, but sturdy and reinforced. Ash’s eyes caught the faint marks in the worn wood, subtle but telling: dark streaks and stains that had seeped deep into the grain. Not rust, not dirt, but something organic. A slime, dark red, almost black where it had soaked deepest. It was smeared along the edges, pooled slightly in corners, a quiet testament to what had been carried within.

  Ash leaned forward in the saddle, examining it. He did not need to ask. He already knew.

  Yewblight.

  Of course. Of course the substance came from this mountain. Nothing else made sense. No trader had ever brought it to market. No rival faction had reproduced it. No scholar had cataloged its properties beyond hearsay.

  It was here. Only here.

  Ash thought briefly about all the others who had failed, who had vanished attempting the same path. The stains in the wood told a silent story: if a person discovered Yewblight without understanding the mountain’s truth, they did not leave it behind. They were consumed by it, in body or mind. That was why no one else had ever held it. The mountain demanded payment in full.

  He could feel the weight of that truth pressing against him. Not as fear, but as anticipation. He wondered at the method. The difficulty. The creature or man—or something else—that protected it. And he did not feel hesitation. Not now. Not ever.

  The road stretched ahead, relentless and winding. Days passed. The air grew thinner with each mile. Ash rode steadily, noting the changes in flora and soil, tracking the shift in wind and the shape of clouds. The mountain grew larger every day, its jagged peak a constant presence above the treeline. The fog that clung to its slopes did not lift with dawn or afternoon sun. It moved independently, as if it had its own rhythm.

  Finally, the foot of the mountain revealed itself in stark clarity. The edge of the forest, where trees had once grown thick and protective, now bore pale leaves, white as ash. They glimmered faintly in the filtered sunlight, not cold but strange, unnatural. Some bore delicate red veins along their veins, winding across each leaf like slow, living threads of blood. Ash’s gaze lingered on them longer than it should have.

  He had seen no such flora in the Withering Yew. Not in the swamps, not along rivers, not in any volumes he had ever read. There was a beauty here, hypnotic in its symmetry and subtlety, but it was dangerous as well. He could sense it, deep in the way his body reacted, in the way the air seemed to hold against him.

  Even the animals they passed were different. Sparse birds with dark feathers flitted among the pale branches. Insects, far larger and quieter than normal, disappeared at his approach, leaving silence so thick it pressed in his ears. The ground was uneven, broken by stone outcroppings and shallow rivulets that gleamed with strange clarity, as if the mountain itself had washed them clean.

  Ash rode at his own pace, unhurried, absorbing every detail. Every subtle shift in color, every odd scent, every unnatural stillness was cataloged.

  Hagrin slowed his horse, moving to Ash’s side. Kaelreth remained close behind, riding with that familiar tight control over his mount, but saying nothing.

  Ash allowed himself a brief glance at the old man’s expression. Hagrin’s eyes were steady but weighed with something unspoken—a quiet apology, a recognition that the path ahead was different from any the Fold had faced.

  The mountain loomed larger now, its peak jagged, the clouds around it thickening, the shadow it cast long and oppressive despite the sun above. It was no longer a distant figure. It was here. Its presence was immediate.

  The wind rolled over the pale-leaved trees and drifted across the stony path, carrying a faint chill that pressed against Ash’s skin. The carriage trailed along beside them, creaking over uneven rocks. Hagrin rode closer, slowing his mount to match Ash’s pace. Kaelreth remained slightly behind, silent, like a shadow tethered to both men.

  Hagrin’s voice cut through the rhythmic clop of hooves. “Do you remember, Ash,” he began, “the day you asked me about the mountain? The first day you arrived at the Withering Yew?” His gaze was steady, measured, the same calm that had guided the Fold through countless tests. “I told you that most people do not return from it. You also know the rumors that surround it.”

  Ash looked at him, unflinching. He nodded once, deliberately. No words. He had heard the stories. He had guessed at the truths. And yet, he let Hagrin speak.

  Hagrin paused, as if weighing the words carefully, then continued. “There is a reason for all of it. There lives someone remarkable here. Someone with power beyond understanding, and knowledge unthinkable. He could shape you in ways you cannot achieve anywhere else.”

  Ash’s gaze drifted ahead, over the rising incline of the mountain. He already understood. Already anticipated. He said nothing.

  Hagrin’s tone softened, almost reluctant. “I have taken the liberty of choosing this path for you.” He chuckled, a faint, warm sound that contrasted the sharp air around them. “I know now, after the Trail, that no one can choose anything for you, can they, Ash?” There was a challenge in the way he said it, a weight behind the words.

  Ash smiled dryly, the faintest curve of lips that did not reach his eyes. “Well… I suppose a good pot of stew could certainly help in the attempt.”

  Hagrin frowned, then laughed, the sound rich and unconcerned. “You need to study humor when you get a chance,” he said, shaking his head. “You are far from a master in that area.”

  Ash felt the sting of a slight insult, but it did not touch him. He turned the expression into a thin, polite smile, keeping the motion light and deliberate.

  Hagrin’s face softened again, his expression shifting from amusement to the weight of memory. “I truly don’t know if you will survive,” he said quietly. “If you choose to go up this mountain, I have seen the danger of this man… the kind of power he wields. I have watched men die horribly. Young men, strong men, men like you. And I was lucky to survive.”

  Ash said nothing, letting the words hang. They did not concern him. They were data, proof of the mountain’s nature, of the challenge he would face.

  “This man is very old,” Hagrin continued, lowering his voice. “But do not let age fool you. He does not take just anyone in. If someone comes uninvited… he does not let them leave.”

  The wind whispered through the grass. The horses shifted beneath their riders. The carriage wheels groaned softly over stones. Silence stretched between them, broken only by the rhythm of their passage.

  “You see, Ash,” Hagrin said, voice low, deliberate, “the Old Man wanted someone else to come. The man you fought at the Trail.”

  Ash already knew, of course. He had known the moment Hagrin mentioned the mountain. But he let Hagrin speak. Let him trace the story in his own way.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “That man,” Hagrin said, “overpowered many. He killed twelve hardened soldiers in the West by himself. He almost killed one of our own comrades. Finally, he was overwhelmed—by sheer numbers and by a certain individual who is more formidable than most of our ranks even are.” Hagrin’s voice carried a faint longing, a trace of what Ash recognized as admiration for what might have been.

  “The Old Man somehow knew of this,” Hagrin went on, shaking his head slightly. “I have never understood how he knows these things. But more to the point, he wants very strong people. Only the strongest of the strong. I am not sure why… only that he desires to create the perfect warriors. Someone so powerful no one else comes close. He can do it… if he finds the right man. Someone capable of withstanding the kind of torturous training he gives. He has never found anyone capable of finishing the Forge of Will… well, he did once, but that is a difficult story.”

  Hagrin’s gaze returned to Ash. “I trained with this man. I failed. The so-called Forge of Will… the most difficult part of his training. I am lucky to be alive. The group I started with—thirty young warriors—only myself and one other survived.”

  His voice softened further, lower now, careful. “Ash, if you do not wish to take the chance… if you do not think you can survive his purification, then you may turn around. Rejoin the Fold. Or craft your own path in this world. You are your own man. Almost eighteen winters, standing strong like an experienced general already.” Hagrin’s eyes reflected pride, tempered with concern.

  “I truly believe in you,” he said. “I think you—of all people—stand a chance to pass the Forge of Will.” He gestured over his shoulder. “Kaelreth, here, thinks you will die. He would have rather sent that detestable man you slayed up here to be consumed by this cursed mountain.”

  Ash’s eyes flicked to Kaelreth. The other man met his gaze, then looked away, frustration pressing against the faint sorrow in his expression. Ash’s observation was precise. He cataloged the tiny shift in Kaelreth’s shoulders, the squeeze of jaw muscles, the fleeting shadow of regret.

  Ash returned his attention forward, toward Hagrin and the mountain.

  “If I do not go,” Ash said, deliberate, voice calm, “you will face consequences. Is that not correct?”

  Hagrin’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Do not worry about that, my boy. We have learned how to deal with the wrath of the Old Man.”

  Ash sensed a hint of fear in the otherwise steady tone. He filed it away, quietly noted, and let the thought linger.

  After a moment, Ash’s voice cut through the muted clatter of horse hooves and carriage wheels. “I believe this path you have revealed to me is exactly in line with my interests. Whatever the reasons or circumstances, I am glad to be sent in this direction.”

  He let the words rest, weighty but neutral, as though recording fact rather than asking for approval. Then, after a pause, he added softly, “I also want to thank you for everything you have provided in the year and a half I have spent with you. I have learned and mastered many things. They are valuable to me. Hagrin, I truly respect you. I only regret not seeing your skill with a blade, even once.”

  Hagrin’s expression softened, a faint smile breaking across his weathered face. “I regret that too,” he said, chuckling. “I also respect you, Ash. You are a true warrior. You have impressive intuition and wisdom. Do not waste it here. Do not die on this foul mountain.”

  Ash inclined his head slightly, light but resolute. “I am not planning on it.”

  Kaelreth scoffed behind them, but the sound was tinged with something softer, a spark of sadness he could not conceal. Ash did not respond; he simply cataloged it, storing it with precision.

  They continued riding. The wind shifted. The pale-leaved trees gave way to bare rock and snow-flecked shrubs. The mountain’s presence grew heavier with each turn in the path. The carriage trailed steadily, the horses straining slightly against their burden.

  And still, Ash’s gaze remained forward, focused on the path, the mountain, the unknown waiting just ahead.

  The air grew thinner, colder, sharper, as the path widened and the pale-leaved flora thickened around them. Snow-white leaves brushed against Ash’s fur coverings, brittle yet unbroken by frost, some streaked with thin red veins that shimmered faintly in the light. The mountain loomed above, immense and immovable, its peak shrouded in clouds and rumor alike. Every step deeper into this territory brought with it a weight, pressing against lungs, against thought, against the small cadence of certainty that Ash always carried.

  Ahead, Ash noticed a scatter of boxes stacked haphazardly near a hollowed-out tree. Thin tendrils of smoke curled from its opening, rising as if the air itself had chosen this unnatural path. Ash’s senses sharpened instantly. The movement of the wind, the subtle shift of shadows across the underbrush—all of it told him that there was more here than ordinary labor or shelter. Could this be a threat?

  The figure stepped out from the hollow. Ash’s eyes narrowed, focusing. The man was not particularly large, but he moved with perfect control, every motion deliberate, economical, and efficient. Only an animal hide covered his chest, leggings the same, bare arms flexing in the cold. Ash noted the bite of the wind against his own inadequate furs, the chill that should have slowed a lesser man, and understood immediately: this one would not feel it.

  His skin was deeply dark, his face expressionless, movements elegant and exact. He approached the boxes, leaning against the topmost one with smooth, effortless power. And then Ash noticed it—the man’s awareness. Not just of the Fold, not just of Hagrin and Kaelreth, but of three other presences. Two in the trees, one gliding in the white brush next to them. Silent. Watchful. Ghost-like.

  The hairs along Ash’s neck stood on end. These were predators. Not of flesh alone, but of perception, of presence. Almost as if ghosts had chosen this place for themselves.

  Hagrin rode forward, unconcerned, eyes fixed ahead as though nothing around him could threaten the Fold. His confidence was absolute. Ash cataloged it, storing it for later.

  As they approached the boxes, Hagrin’s voice cut softly through the wind. “These are the Old Man’s… henchmen, servants, puppets. Call them what you like. There are more than you will ever see. They exist everywhere, and nowhere. They act only on their master’s command. Nothing more. Nothing less. No need to worry—they will not harm you. But do not underestimate them. Each could slay the brute you killed at the Trail in a heartbeat.”

  Ash’s breath caught slightly, though not from fear. He processed it, turned the data over in his mind. Puppets. Not warriors, not men, not soldiers. Yet they rivaled any human strength he had seen. And he… had been chosen. To become one of the few worthy in this crucible. The calculus of it was almost beautiful.

  Why not simply train these dark men and let them bear the Forge of Will? Ash pondered it but said nothing. Observation first. Judgment later.

  Kaelreth dismounted, methodical, precise, and began loading the boxes into the carriage. Ash stepped closer, noting the faint crimson stains and the lingering scent of raw, unrefined substance. Yewblight. He understood immediately. Hagrin’s destination had always been the mountain. Of course. Only here, under the Old Man’s oversight, could it be harvested. No one else had survived to take it home.

  Hagrin dismounted and approached the figure leaning on the topmost box. From the inside of his furs, he produced a folded letter, placing it gently into the man’s hands. “I trust your master will be satisfied with the change in delivery.” His gesture swept subtly toward Ash, now also dismounted, the message implicit: the boy belonged here.

  The man’s gaze swept over Ash. It pierced, calculated, precise. Ash felt a rare awareness of himself under scrutiny, his instincts and mental measurements being taken apart with no visible effort. There was a sharpness in the eyes, a deliberate assessment that made Ash question the very limits of his own perception.

  Then the man spoke. Smooth, clear, practiced. No overt emotion, yet each word carried weight, precision. “Only time will tell, Hagrin. But I believe you do not need to fear Dagonious this time.” He offered a lifeless smile, measured, a blade of mock warmth.

  Hagrin did not answer. His eyes shifted to Ash, and his voice came, quiet, almost casual in its delivery, yet full of gravity. “Go with these men, Ash. They will take you to the Old Man. No need for you to get lost on your way through this perilous mountain.” A chuckle followed, soft, deliberate.

  “You will not emerge unchanged,” Hagrin added. “If you survive, you will be someone else entirely. I know this… I did not emerge the same.” His voice trailed into the wind, the weight of experience folded into a single confession.

  Kaelreth’s voice followed, lower, edged with unspoken sorrow. “Ash, I truly looked forward to calling you brother, part of the Fold. As strange as you are, you brought value. You did not ride with us even once, yet you left your mark. I wish you strength. Try and make it back… would you?”

  Ash met Kaelreth’s eyes for a moment, cataloged the fleeting sadness there, then turned back to the path ahead. “This is not where I die. This is not where my purpose comes to an end. Whatever it takes, I will be stronger when I see both of you again.”

  He looked at Hagrin, and something unspoken passed through his mind. Perhaps he would miss this giant of a man more than he would Draeven. Perhaps it would not matter. Paths might cross again.

  Without further words, Hagrin and Kaelreth mounted, turned the horses and the carriage, and began their journey back down the path. The mountain’s air closed around Ash.

  From the trees, the pale-leaved brush, and the shadows of the rocks, the Old Man’s men began to stir. They moved almost gliding, unnatural in speed and silence, ascending the mountain as if drawn by an unseen rhythm. Ash followed them, keeping pace effortlessly.

  Every step brought him closer to the unknown. Closer to the forge. Closer to the transformation that awaited.

  Here, alone yet not alone, Ash felt the thrill of anticipation settle into him. The mountain was not just a challenge. It was a revelation, and he would walk it on his own terms.