What is the most hateful sound in the world?

  Is it the grating screech of chalk dragged across a blackboard?

  The discordant blare of an alarm clock yanking you from sleep?

  Those are close contenders, no doubt. But for me, one sound stands above all others in sheer loathing — one that carries an almost primal terror.

  The sound of water.

  Not just any water — not the patter of rain on a rooftop, nor the gurgle of a mountain stream. I mean the deep, resonant, merciless sounds that emanate from vast bodies of water: the roar of an ocean tide, the ceaseless rumble of a river’s current, the guttural churn of unseen depths.

  Whenever I heard it, dread took root in my chest. I would instinctively slow down, every sense sharpening, my steps cautious and measured. I had learned the hard way that those sounds meant danger was near — that one misstep could cost me everything.

  The gravel beneath my feet confirmed it: slick, loose, treacherous. My boots skidded slightly, nearly throwing me off balance as I jerked left, veering sharply away from the river’s edge. The ground sloped gently upward, taking me alongside the river as I ran.

  As the trees thinned and the dense canopy opened above me, I caught my first glimpse of the land ahead — and what a sight it was.

  Calling it hilly would be an insult. These were not hills, but titans of stone, jagged and immense, looming on the horizon like sentinels. Mountains, just as I had expected — just as I had read.

  A faint smile tugged at my lips. I had found the right path. It hadn’t been difficult to follow, but confirmation always brought a flicker of satisfaction. I pressed on, my sword still gripped tightly in one hand, its weight both a comfort and a burden.

  But the sound of the river never faded. It remained with me, whispering warnings in the back of my mind — a constant reminder that I was never more than a single slip away from death.

  I ran for what felt like half the night, following the river upstream. I stopped only briefly, draining the blood from a small animal I had caught — enough to keep my strength up. There was no time for rest.

  The mountains grew ever closer, rising like a fortress wall before me until they eventually blocked my path altogether. I came to a dead stop, staring up at a sheer stone face that stretched impossibly high into the darkness above.

  To my right, water cascaded in a white fury, crashing down into the riverbed below with a deafening roar. A waterfall — towering, wild, and utterly impassable.

  Climbing it directly was suicide. But I didn’t have the luxury of hesitation. I had mere hours to reach the top, and my time was already slipping through my fingers like grains of sand.

  I ran alongside the stone wall, searching desperately for any weakness, any break in the vertical face. And then — finally — the wall gave way to a steep, jagged slope. It wasn’t welcoming, but it was climbable.

  Without pause, I clenched the hilt of my sword in my teeth and began to climb.

  I’d never done much climbing in purgatory, but I knew enough. I knew about anchors, ropes, safety harnesses — and I also knew I had none of those. There was no room for caution. I had to move.

  The initial climb was manageable, with decent handholds and rough surfaces. But the stone quickly betrayed me, turning slick and unnervingly smooth in places. I had to carve out makeshift grips using my sword, hacking at brittle outcroppings just to gain a foothold.

  It was a blessing and a curse. The stone cracked and crumbled far too easily — helpful when I needed a grip, but dangerous when it gave way unexpectedly.

  One such betrayal nearly killed me.

  A rock shattered beneath my left hand, and in an instant, my body lurched backward. I swung out into empty air, my feet roaming freely. I clung by a single arm to the cliff face, the sword still clenched between my teeth.

  For a breathless moment, I dangled there. Then I found a foothold, hauled myself up, and pressed my body against the rock, trembling. Relief washed through me — sharp and sudden — until a darker thought replaced it.

  What if this climb had been for nothing? What if the summit held no passage, no path, no salvation?

  That possibility chilled me more than the fall. But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.

  Because as long as I heard the water behind me — growling, rushing, waiting — I knew what failure meant.

  And I wasn’t ready to die. Not yet.

  “Whatcha doing there?”

  The voice cut through the wind like a whip, startling me. I twisted my head back, expecting to see some bird that had mimicked human speech — I’d only heard fluttering wings so far. But what I saw wasn’t a bird at all.

  Hovering just a few metres away, a red-haired woman with brilliant white wings and feathered arms floated effortlessly in the air. Her eyes sparkled with curiosity. A harpy — of all intelligent species I could’ve encountered, it had to be one of them. Not that I hadn’t anticipated their presence in this region.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “Enjoying the view,” I replied, planting my voice with forced calm as I drove my sword into the stone wall for balance. “What about you?”

  She tilted her head mid-air, the feathers of her wings catching the golden light of dawn. “Couldn’t sleep,” she said casually, as if we were two neighbors chatting over a fence. “Been flying around, trying to figure out what those beavers are up to.”

  That last part made me smile, even if involuntarily.

  “Hey, can you take me to them?” I asked, trying to keep the tone light. “I’m kind of stuck here — and I’ve got some business with them to settle.”

  Before she could answer, a sharp gust of wind slammed against the cliffside. I pressed myself tighter to the rock, gritting my teeth as the wind tugged at my clothes. My grip faltered for half a second, and I felt the raw edge of death flick past me like a knife. One glance down confirmed it: a fall from this height meant splattered bones and silence.

  I had vastly overestimated my climbing ability. But turning back wasn’t an option.

  The harpy flapped lazily in the wind, unbothered. “What kind of business?” she asked, her eyes narrowing slightly. “How do you intend to solve your issues with them?”

  Her wings remained spread, balanced effortlessly in the turbulent air. Despite her species’ reputation for hostility, especially toward outsiders, she hadn’t tried to drop rocks on my head yet — a small victory in itself.

  “Probably by murdering at least a few of them,” I admitted, without flinching. “So... can you give me a lift?”

  She paused, then smiled. It wasn’t a polite smile — it was gleeful, full of something far more primal. Of course. I’d heard of the longstanding feud between harpies and the beaverfolk who lived in these mountains, but the sheer delight in her expression still surprised me.

  “Sure,” she said at last. “I guess I could help.” She swooped in close, wings bracing against the cliff’s swirling updraft. “Grab onto my legs.”

  I yanked my sword from the stone and she hovered just close enough for me to reach her taloned feet. Her birdlike claws gripped around my forearms firmly — not painfully, but tight enough to ensure I wouldn’t slip, even if my fingers gave out. Not that I would let that happen. I refused to let that happen.

  Then, with a few mighty beats of her wings, she lifted us off the cliff.

  To my astonishment, we rose quickly, almost effortlessly. With our combined weight, that kind of ascent should’ve been impossible — and yet, she didn’t even seem strained. The air whistled past us as we gained altitude, and below, the vast chasm I had clung to not minutes before shrank away into insignificance.

  There was no doubt about it: magic was involved.

  Magic in this world was rare, subtle, almost unseeable. But there were still races — gifted, ancient ones — who could tap into it instinctively. Harpies, it seemed, were among them. That, or she was far stronger than her frame suggested.

  Either way, I was finally moving again — up, toward the summit, toward the beavers, and toward the answers I needed.

  And in the talons of a creature that could’ve easily let me fall, I could only hope our alliance, however brief, would hold just long enough.

  The view was nothing short of breathtaking.

  From this high up, the world below unfolded like a living painting — an endless sea of green stretching out in every direction. The vast forest canopy rolled like waves across the landscape, broken only by the occasional glimmer of blue: small lakes, winding streams, or perhaps distant reflections of the sky in hidden ponds. Birds flitted below us in scattered flocks, their wings slicing the air with ease, but none of them dared to soar as high as we were now.

  As I turned my gaze toward the mountains, I was struck by the sheer scale of what lay ahead. Their peaks were dusted with snow, sharp and brilliant under the early light, reaching high into the sky like ancient sentinels. But even more astonishing was what had been carved into them — a colossal wooden structure, unlike anything I had ever seen.

  It defied all logic.

  No human could have built something of that scale. It clung to the mountainside and spanned across ridges, massive beams disappearing into cliff faces, creating a framework that was both intimidating and awe-inspiring. From one of its great openings, the waterfall I’d seen earlier poured forth like a wound in the mountain, feeding the river running through the elven territory.

  As we continued to ascend, the full scope of the construction revealed itself — and it made my head spin.

  The mountain range itself was immense, but it wasn’t just size that made it remarkable — it was the shape. It formed a natural circle, enclosing a vast basin in its center, like a colossal bowl cradled by stone.

  It would have made the perfect haven for wild game, or an expansive stretch of farmland if humans had ever settled here. But there were no herds grazing, no fields being tended.

  Instead, the basin was filled with water.

  And not just any water — teeming, shimmering, alive with fish. Hundreds of thousands of them, probably more. They darted just beneath the surface, flashing silver in the sunlight, moving in synchrony like a single vast organism.

  This wasn’t a natural lake. It was something entirely different.

  It was engineered. Designed. A fish reservoir of unimaginable scale.

  Suddenly, the enormity of the wooden structure made sense. It wasn’t a city or a fortress — it was part of a system, a habitat, maybe even a factory. Whatever this was, it had been built with purpose, by a species capable of reshaping mountains and rerouting rivers.

  And I had a very strong suspicion who that species was.

  The harpy carrying me hadn't said much as we flew, but her eyes were already scanning the edges of the structure with quiet intensity. She, too, understood where we were going. And what kind of creatures we would soon be facing.

  The beavers.

  Not simple woodland animals — no. These were something else entirely. Builders, engineers, a species driven by order and infrastructure. And whatever lay at the heart of their massive, aquatic kingdom — I had a feeling I was about to find out.

  Whether I was ready or not.