The calmness of the morning was what woke Harbek. No lingering smell of stew from the night before, only the numbness beginning to creep into his bones. He lingered a moment with his eyes closed, taking stock of himself. Nothing felt wrong. Nothing strained or dulled by a night spent with nothing but the mountain as company.

  He drew in one last breath of crisp air, then opened his eyes and prepared for the day ahead.

  The embers still held life. Harbek warmed his hands over them and used what heat remained to toast another chunk of bread. It wasn’t stew, but it would hold. He finished the last of his dried steak, took a sharp swig of meltwater, and pulled his pack close. Straps were checked for wear. Contents accounted for.

  He stretched slowly, easing stiff muscles, and took stock of his clothes. The cloak was too thin — the cold sank through it too quickly. His jerkin had gone rigid with the night’s chill, and once still, it resisted movement. The pack thudded against his lower back as he shifted; it would need to be set more firmly if he meant to travel without trouble.

  Returning to the embers, Harbek selected a larger piece to replace the one he used. He carried the remains to the cliff’s edge and scattered them into the wind. Coal was natural. A mess wasn’t—unless it served a purpose.

  Using the unburned end of the branch, he swept the ground clear, leaving only what he intended behind.

  Before leaving, Harbek paused at the pine’s base. He lifted an exposed root just enough to slide a flat stone beneath it, then eased it back into place—the bend now wrong by a finger’s breadth. Enough to remember. Enough to fade.

  He shouldered his pack and stepped out from the shelter, the mountain opening around him all at once. The storm had torn itself apart during the night—clouds shredded and fleeing east, leaving a hard, pale sky in their wake. Wind still ran along the face, cold and restless, but it no longer struck with purpose.

  Below him, Emberhollow was nothing but a suggestion lost in smoke and distance. Above, the slope narrowed and steepened, stone breaking through the frost like old bone.

  Harbek turned uphill and began again, boots finding purchase where the rock allowed, the marked way falling behind him as the mountain took over.

  The path rose sharply once he left the shelter, the stone narrowing as the mountain’s face began to bare itself. What had been a chasm now opened into a slanted shelf of rock, wind-scoured and thin with frost.

  Harbek adjusted his footing without thinking, boots finding purchase where the stone had roughened instead of smoothed. The air was cleaner here, sharper. It burned faintly in his chest.

  The storm had moved on during the night. What remained was its aftermath—broken cloud trailing westward, the sky pale and stretched thin above him. Sunlight caught on distant ice fields and flashed briefly, gone as soon as it appeared. The wind no longer pushed.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  It watched.

  Markers grew scarce as he climbed. The careful cairns of the lower paths gave way to simpler signs—an old chisel line in stone, barely visible beneath rime, a single set rock half-sunk against the slope.

  Harbek paused at one, brushed frost away with his thumb. Dwarven work, but old. Older than Emberhollow. He nodded once and moved on.

  The mountain offered less guidance here. The trail bent when it chose to, narrowed without warning, then vanished altogether into bare stone. Harbek slowed his pace, letting his breathing settle into rhythm. He placed each step with intent, not haste, listening for the sound of hollow ice beneath his weight, feeling for the tremor that meant a fault in the rock.

  Below him, Emberhollow had shrunk to smoke and shadow. The valley held its breath, distant and quiet. Up here, there was only stone, wind, and the long pull upward.

  The marks ended.

  Harbek did not.

  As Harbek climbed, the treeline thinned. Pines clung to the rock in crooked, stubborn lines, their roots gripping cracks that barely deserved the name. Beyond them, the forest gave way to dense, low vegetation—hardy growth that crept along the stone where taller trees could not stand.

  His boots began to slip, just slightly, with each step. The rock here was worn smooth by wind and ice, offering little mercy to leather meant for forge floors and packed paths.

  The mountain did not want forge boots out here.

  Loose debris lay scattered across what might once have been a trail, but the wind had already begun its work, brushing stone and splinters toward the drop beyond the path. Nothing lingered long at this height. The mountain kept only what could hold.

  The path eased for a short stretch before bending again along the mountain’s face. Wind slid past him without force now, carrying only the dry scent of stone and frost-bitten pine. Harbek kept his eyes on the ground, reading old water lines and the faint scarring of passage.

  He noticed the tree because it didn’t belong to the slope.

  The trunk lay where the mountain folded inward, settled against stone as if it had always belonged there. The break was clean—not rot, not rotched by age. A shear, sharp and final.

  He stepped closer, setting his pack down before kneeling to the grain. His fingers followed the line of the fibers, feeling for twist, for hidden stress. There was none. Whatever storm had taken it had done so without wrenching it apart. Harbek traced the split with two fingers where the tree gave loose. The grain beneath was tight and pale, grown slow and hard by thin soil and colder years. Whatever had brought it down hadn’t been weakness. Ice, perhaps. A shift in the wind. Weight

  where there had once been balance.

  He tested the limbs one by one, knocking away those too twisted or heavy to justify the carry. Two lengths he set aside—straight, sound, worth the effort. Enough.

  He didn’t take more.

  The tree had alre

  ady given what could be spared.