Chapter 8 - The Ascent of Shadows
The climb up the high ridges of the northern mountains tested the endurance of every man in the royal escort. The wind howled like a wounded beast, hurling icy sleet against their armor. Horses had to be left behind with a small guard detachment, forcing the knights and soldiers to trudge through knee-deep snow on foot.
Arthur led the column alongside Lyra. Despite his youth, he matched her pace effortlessly, his body warmed by the subtle, continuous magic radiating from Caliburn.
As they paused on a narrow ledge overlooking the snow-choked valley below, Gawain caught his breath, leaning heavily against a rock face. "I have fought in ten campaigns, Sire, but this... this is a trial fit for the gods."
"It is a test of our resolve," Arthur said, gazing down at the distant lights of Frosthold twinkling in the dark like cold stars. "Malaphar thinks we are marching to our doom on the low road. By morning, we will be standing at his gates."
"And the hostages?" Lyra asked quietly, standing near the edge of the cliff, her eyes filled with raw emotion. "If Malaphar realizes we have bypassed his trap, he may harm the children."
"He won't have the chance," Arthur promised, his voice carrying an absolute certainty that left no room for doubt. "We move silently. We strike swiftly. And we liberate your people before the sun reaches its peak."
Suddenly, a sharp crack echoed through the ridge. A patch of loose shale and ice gave way beneath one of the rearmost soldiers. With a muffled cry, the man slipped backward over the edge of the precipice.
Before Gawain could even react, Arthur moved with blinding, supernatural speed. He lunged forward, diving over the icy ledge, and caught the soldier by the heavy strap of his breastplate just as he was plunging into the dark abyss. With a superhuman heave—fueled by the pulsing power of Caliburn—Arthur hoisted the grown man back onto the safe stone path.
The soldiers stared in stunned silence, their breathing ragged. The soldier he had saved pressed his forehead against the icy ground, weeping in gratitude.
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"Praise be to the King," someone whispered in the ranks.
Arthur simply pulled his hood down, his eyes glowing with a faint golden undertone in the dark. "Check your gear," he commanded gently. "We keep moving."
