Sven did look more than eager to get out of the stables, and to see the family he and Kristoff were adopted into. The reindeer gave him a near-deadly greeting when he tried to rub against Michael's chest, his antlers almost jabbing into his eyes. But he gave the reindeer some scratches behind his ears, Sven giving a very slobbery lick to the cheek in return.

Anna and Kristoff sat in the front while he, Elsa, and Olaf sat in the back. Michael was surprised to see the little snowman coming along, but in truth, it was better than having him alone in the castle.

Unfortunately, his constant need to express certain trivial facts – which to Michael's surprise, the snowman knew a lot – is a constant interruption as Michael tries to memorize the route from the castle to this . . . place.

They still haven't told him where they were going, but if it's just going to be someone's home, he doesn't think it's really necessary.

In less than an hour, Michael suggests that he and Anna switch places. Both the queen and the princess seemed to pity him, and Anna agrees, letting Michael sit up front.

With a smooth vault, Michael hops over into the vacant passenger seat, Anna carefully stepping her way over towards her sister and Olaf. Kristoff doesn't stop the wagon.

"So," Michael says as he settles, blatantly ignoring Kristoff's seemingly disappointed expression, "anything I should know about your family before we arrive? Anything I should avoid saying, doing . . .?"

"Um, no. I pretty much told you everything about them. They're – they're pretty open-minded people, I'm sure you'll like them."

"Then why does it seem like there's something you're not telling me?" Behind him, he can sense Anna and Elsa's gaze.

Kristoff doesn't deny anything, to Michael's respect, and says, "Well, they're not your usual family. And I didn't want to discourage you from coming."

"Kristoff, I've seen a lot more than you probably have. I think I can handle whatever it is you're hiding."

A moment of silence, and Kristoff takes his eyes off the road to look back at the sisters. Michael does to, finding concern in their eyes, though Elsa seems more relieved at Michael's answer. She gives a gentle smile, fiddling with her fingers. Concern still laces Anna's eyes, and her smile seems more forced.

Kristoff sighs as he turns towards the front again. He lets the reins drape in his lap, leaving the driving fully to Sven. "Well, the place we're going, it's not a . . . commonly visited place."

Michael pieced that together when they started going on an off-beaten path; the wood and brick buildings slowly disappearing, birch trees and flattened grass, giving the slightest imprint of a road emerging in their place.

"We're traveling to a place known as the Valley of the Living Rock." Kristoff suddenly grins as the words process in Michael's mind. "But when you officially meet my family, I don't want there to be any ruins."

With that, he puts his eyes back on the road. Left confused, Michael looks back to find both sisters grinning – either close-lipped or showing their teeth – it almost matches that of a conspirator's. Not to lead him into a trap, but something about Kristoff's family will surely leave him shocked.

Deciding to go along with their little surprise, Michael slumps into the seat and folds his arms. If he's going to be surprised, perhaps he should just close his eyes.

The ride takes about an hour with the pace they're going. Michael's eyes flutter open and he sits up straight.

His heart stammers a bit as his magic begins to stir – cawing and pacing back and forth like impatient cat.

Kristoff is still driving, sparing Michael a quick jerk of his chin in greeting. Looking behind him both of the sisters seem to have dozed off as well, a thin streak of drool going down Anna's chin and into her tunic. Elsa has since curled on her side, resting her cheek on her folded hands.

Their surroundings have changed to a mountainous foothill. Walls of rock and moss climb up on either side of them. The trees have since vanished, in their place being thick, gnarled roots and dead-looking trees. As they pass a large rock wall, Michael squints his eyes at what he thinks are swirling patterns etched into the stone, into the moss.

The sky has darkened, revealing with it a blanket of stars. But also, light – natural lights that dance across the sky for miles. They ripple different colors: shades of red, yellow, green, blue, and violet, and appear in many forms from patches or scattered clouds of light, to streamers, arcs, rippling curtains or shooting rays that light up the sky with an eerie glow.

The Northern Lights, Elsa had said it was. Or the Aurora. And against the black silhouettes of the trees, it's impossible not to look and be entranced.

The weather has since grown noticeably warmer. And when he finds steam rising from the ground, he knew why. Natural born guizers run underneath this land, yet none of the water seems to go towards the trees. The humid air fills his nose, making it feel like he's sweating oil.

Behind him, he can hear the sisters beginning to wake, but Michael pays no heed as his magic suddenly grows more animated. Suddenly something washes over him, it's enough of a shock that Michael gasps and claps his hands over his ears as there's a sharp pop.

He feels a zinging current snap against his skin, raising all the hairs on his skin, tickling his fingertips. Its over in a flash, but not before it pulls at his skin, near tugging him in his seat; like it's trying to shed his skin as he crosses whatever border surrounds this place.

A gentle hand is placed upon Michael's shoulder, to which he looks back and sees Elsa, still with that gentle and assuring smile.

Kristoff brings the wagon to a dead stop, hopping out without a word, as do the sisters. He unlatches Sven from the wagon, leaving the reindeer to huff with glee as he bolts for the end of the valley. Michael opts to stay by the wagon.

It's a dead end, looking more like a forgotten amphitheater with what looks like a set of four stairs leading up to a second level filled with random, uneven moss seating. More moss covers the surface of the flattened stones, more deadwood trees border the place like skeletal sentries.

And lots and lots and lots of rocks.

Much of those rocks are now scattered throughout the main central area.

Were it not for the open valley now behind them, this would've felt more like a prison than any kind of home.

"Well," Kristoff cheers with a clap of his hands. "We're here. This is my family!"

Michael dares all of two steps away from the wagon. "This is it?"

Kristoff is standing at the center of the stone circle, the sisters approaching and waving at the inanimate rocks. Olaf and Sven are beside themselves with glee, hugging and waving to each and every rounded stone.

The sisters turn to him, Elsa heading back towards him without missing a beat. She holds out her hands to him. Michael takes them without hesitation.

But when she tries to tug him into the ring, he digs his heels into the ground.

"Michael, it's okay."

Not even the Queen of Arendelle's words feel all that comforting.

"You trust me, don't you?"

"Of course." Again, without hesitation.

She steps close, lacing their fingers together as she looks up to him. "Then come closer."

Is that a purr in her voice?

Wicked, beautiful thing.

Olaf's voice at his left nearly startles him. "Trust me, when Anna and I first came here, I thought the same thing. But it really ended up being a lovely visit!"

When Elsa's eyes settle upon him again, Michael relinquishes as she tugs him over. But not without a disapproving sigh.

Kristoff has since taken to talking to the rocks, little bits of conversation with each, "You are a sight for sore eyes!" "Clay, whoa . . . I don't even recognize you. You've lost so much weight!"

Elsa, who still hasn't let go of his hands, tugs him a couple of feet away from where Kristoff stands, Anna walking up to his side, still smiling and laughing at the stones. "Elsa, what do I do?"

"I've learned to just roll with it."

Suddenly a low rumbling has Michael clamping his mouth shut. Its sounds similar to thunder, but heavier. Michael near yanks Elsa behind him, his hand drifting towards his dagger. He looks around, thinking there's some kind of avalanche, but –

His skin grows cold as he realizes the stones are suddenly shaking. Rocking back and forth ever so slightly.

Then a few stones begin to roll down the hill towards Kristoff, each impact sounding as heavy as, well, boulders. Michael has to lift up his left foot, then his right foot as two stones nearly roll over each.

Once a huge mass of them have converged to the center, Michael finds his mouth gaping as the rocks shift – the thinnest flash of light – and suddenly the rocks open up to reveal creatures of stone with large, sharply pointed ears and equally large round noses. They're no taller than a small child. Tuffs of dried grass stick out from the top of their heads, some of them having dead dandelions in groups of two or three.

The moss has morphed into their clothing, looking like small green shifts; some having equally small capes clasped to their shoulders. Around their necks are beads of crystals twined in what has to be dried twigs or vines. The crystals vary in shades of red and blue, the colors near matching the Northern Lights.

Cutting through the confusion, as loud as a crack of lighting, one of the creatures yells, "Kristoff's home!"

Then the central area becomes a mosh of thrilled little, creatures, jumping and cheering and laughing and smiling.

From across the way, another one yells, "Anna and Elsa are here!"

Olaf's jubilant laughter flits across the space.

One of the creatures approaches Kristoff, the voice sounding female with crystals of fuchsia pink, and takes Kristoff's hand. Being made of stone, her weight yanks Kristoff to one knee. "Aw, let me look at you! We've missed you!"

As Anna steps to his side, another one – a different female voice, and one with crystals of sunset orange – rolls up to the princess and yanks her down for a hug.

"It's Elsa! She's here too!" calls a male one, Michael managing to pinpoint him, marking the stones of teal green and the lack of dead weeds.

The color of the crystals must help separate gender, as well as the dead dandelions.

To his dismay, Elsa pulls him along as these things form a path for her to the young couple. Each of them bows to her, dips of their chins and their smiles wide. A chip of joy for Anna. A smile at Elsa.

He doesn't know how it clicked in his mind, but when he sees one of the little things walk up and shows Kristoff that she earned a fire crystal, the name came to him.

Trolls.

"They're trolls." Michael mumbles.

None of the creatures seem to notice him yet, and if it weren't for Kristoff's vague forewarning, Michael would've settled for waiting in the wagon. But gods damn Kristoff, he's backed Michael up into a corner.

True he's seen more kinds of magic than Kristoff could claim, but his encounter with creatures such as these were rare. The war in his kingdom was about the craft itself, not about the many denizens that fell under its category. Faeries: gnomes, sprites, nymphs, goblins, more names than anyone could count or remember.

Each of the trolls, it seems, feels the need to catch the trio up on their lives since their last visit: "Look! I grew a mushroom!" one says. "We wish you visited us more often!" adds another. "I passed a kidney stone."

On and on they went, until one of them look over Elsa's shoulder—to where he stands.

"What is that?" the female troll asks.

Michael merely stares at her, one hand clamping the handle of his dagger strapped at his waist. All eyes turn to him, the trolls blinking in union. One of them makes some sign against evil.

"That," Kristoff says a bit too nervously, "is our new friend."

"Is he a witch?"

Elsa opens her mouth, but Michael said flatly, "No."

And the trio watch as these seemingly adult, weathered, possibly immortal trolls flinch.

"He may act like one sometimes," Anna chirps, looking to deflate the situation. "but no — he's just, human."

"She is no more human than we are," another troll counters.

A pause that went on for too long. Even Kristoff seems at a loss for words.

Anna makes another attempt to soothe the palpable tension. "Um, Michael this is Bulda and Cliff, they're essentially Kristoff's parents."

Michael bristles when he hears a male troll mutter, "Keep him away from the children."

"Look guys, he's kind of the reason we're here. Is Grand Pabbie here?" Kristoff asks.

In answer, there's a softer sound of rolling stone, and the trolls clear another path as a lone rock rolls its way towards them. Elsa goes and takes Michael's hand, bringing him closer to the group.

The rock blooms like the others, revealing a significantly older looking troll. The grass sprouting from his head travels around his neck, like a makeshift collar and into his distinctly thicker eyebrows. It covers his whole head compared to the sprouts atop the other trolls' heads.

An elder troll, of sorts. If the multiple strings of crystals and the long cape are any indication. Like the rest of the trolls, his eyes almost appear onyx, contrasting with the white.

"What sort of enigma have you brought us, Kristoff?" The elder troll asks. His voice is low and husky; the kid of voice heard from a grandfather, or even an elder scholar. A voice that has aged gracefully with time, never losing that touch of gentleness and calm.

"We came looking for answers." Elsa chimes.

"I could sense why you're here." Pabbie says.

Elsa takes Michael's hand and he steps closer to her side.

Pabbie's eyes flick to him. "And who might you be?"

After a quick glance at Elsa, Michael clears his throat. "My name is Michael. Michael Tuller. Elsa and Anna hired me to help solve this, mystery."

The elder troll hums. "Yes. But we both know that this now goes far beyond just a simple assassination."

Michael squares his shoulders. "It would appear so. It's nice to meet you, by the way."

When Grand Pabbie simply stares at him, Michael steels his spine and holds it.

"Michael," Elsa says, her voice hush, "show them what you found."

He looks to her, then to the trolls. He sighs, digging through his satchel. He lowers to one knee, trying his best to ignore the way the trolls seem to take a unified step back. All but Pabbie, at least. "I found these, runes, at a sight of a murder. And recently when there was a demon attack in the town's square. We were hoping you might have some answers. If you might recognize these."

Michael fishes out the papers and hands them to the trolls.

For some stupid reason, Michael finds himself adding, "I tried to copy them as best I could. I tried writing and rewriting some of them."

Pabbie looks at them for a considerable minute. Enough that Michael rises back to his feet. Elsa steps up to his side, even looping her arm around his. Pabbie shuffles through the papers, giving them each a fair glance and not just skimming through them. His brows narrow, then lift, then narrow again.

After a minute and a half, Pabbie gives a defeated sigh. "I'm sorry. But I'm afraid I do not recognize these runes. These are from a strange, sort of magic."

That can't be good.

"A magic you don't even recognize?" Kristoff voices.

"It is not something of our culture, Kristoff. That's all it is." As the group's shoulders sag, Michael's included, Pabbie carefully adds, "But I can answer some other questions you might have."

The group look to the elder troll, as he turns and looks skyward. With a wave of his hands, smaller, rippling silhouettes of the Northern Lights appear. In it, Michael can see the outline of the woman he saw at the temple. Unmistakable for him, and apparently Elsa as she seems to have paled.

"These events extend far past the simplicities of a corrupt court. There is a great evil that threatens the very foundation of your kingdom. Yet, it is not the throne that she seeks."

"She?" Elsa mumbles. Her grip on his arm tightens.

"Who is she?" Michael asks.

Pabbie closes his eyes, the color and forms of the lights shifting. "I . . . I cannot see." The troll stammers.

"Pabbie?" Kristoff says, hitches.

"She won't let me see."

"Be careful," Michael warns the troll. Though he may not know the full extent of this woman's magic, he knows enough that it's a danger to let her into your mind.

"She is . . . human . . . but, tainted. A woman whose mortal skin she shed. I can hear her – crying. Everyone thinks she's dead." Pabbie keeps his eyes closed. "But she's not. Only — different. Changed."

The lights form her silhouette again, this time adding on the rippling of her dark hair. Though the lights shift from blue to pink to purple to green, Michael can still piece every aspect of her together. They shift again, only this time, it is a being of shadows, claws, and a darkness to devour souls.

Elsa grips his hand, and even when he sends a thin tether of his magic to hers, he still shivers in fear. Her grip tightens, indicating she felt it too.

"Her power does not come from anything, but it is of its own creation. It bows to her. It is cold and wild, like madness in her heart."

"What does she want?" Michael dares to ask, ignoring the look Kristoff cuts in his direction.

"She seeks to destroy a power that rivals her own. A power that is even older than her own. Lost for centuries, until now. Slumbering deep."

A rippling of light has the silhouette gone, in its place . . . just a spreading of indistinct bird wings. Wide and grand and beautiful.

"What does this have to do with us, with Arendelle?" Anna asks.

Suddenly Pabbie yells and grunts, the sound making everyone flinch. The lights vanish in a flash and Kristoff and a couple of trolls rush to Pabbie's side as the troll nearly collapses.

"Pabbie! Pabbie, please!" Kristoff pleads, his eyes quickly filling with tears.

The elder troll grunts stiffly, blinking his eyes a few times to get them to focus. He manages to get to his feet with a troubled sigh. "Gods above." He whispers.

"Pabbie, what happened?" Kristoff asks, his voice still trembling.

"I . . . I'm trying to make sense of it. I was trying to see what I can see, but then – this living, angry darkness – it lashed out at me." The troll places his hand over where his heart would be. "She didn't want me to see."

"You mean, she could sense you?" Elsa asks with deathly quiet.

"In whatever way she can, she did. You four must be very careful. You are dealing with something that is far outside even my realm of understanding. Stay cautious. Stay alert."

"Of course, Pabbie." Anna assures, kneeling down to take the trolls porous hands. "Thank you for your time."

The elder troll places his hands over hers, enveloping them as he gives her a gentle smile and a quick nod. Elsa walks over and takes his hands too, silently giving her thanks. The two sisters head for the wagon while Kristoff gives more individual goodbyes. Feeling he's caused enough trouble, Michael decides to take a couple steps back towards the direction of the carriage, until –

"Michael," Pabbie suddenly calls. He turns towards the troll and as he motions Michael to come closer, he kneels once more. The sisters pause, but Elsa pulls Anna further towards the wagon.

Before the elder troll says anything, Michael suddenly says, "I'm sorry for putting you in trouble."

Pabbie only gives a strained but genuine smile. He takes Michael's hands and the rogue doesn't pull back.

"Michael, I am worried for you." The rouge's smile tightens. "Magic can be very alluring. You must be careful not to lose yourself to it."

A moment of contemplation before Michael says, "Were you able to see anything, about my magic?"

An unsure shake of the troll's head. "I saw young hands withered with age. I saw a coffin of black stone. I saw a feather of fire landing on snow and melting it. A bird of burning feathers." A pat on his hands for assurance. "I will try to look deeper. See what else I can find."

"You don't have to do that. If she can sense you trying to look at her, I don't want you in any more danger. Especially because you're Kristoff's family."

"I must see," Pabbie insists. "You're involved in this much more than you think, Michael."

"What –?"

"Before I was interrupted, I saw you Michael, in my vision."

Michael's stomach tightens. "Me? But – why? I'm just a guard for Elsa and Anna. They're the important ones."

"I could only glimpse so much. Even what I just told you required some forceful prying." Pabbie shifts to grip Michael's forearms. Not forceful, but sternly. "You have a bigger part in this game than you realize, Michael. A much more important role than simply protecting the queen."

Footsteps approach and Pabbie finalize their conversation as Elsa lays a hand on Michael's shoulder. "We should be heading back before it gets too dark."

Michael nods, sparing a quick smile towards Pabbie. As he rises, Michael pauses as something shifts in the air. He casually reaches for his dagger and when he hears the whistling –

Elsa beats him to it as a blast of ice hits the arrow, knocking it off course from its intended target of his head.

"Take cover!" Michael hollers.

The trolls scream and scatter, tucking and rolling out of the way as Michael sprints for the sisters. Kristoff hurries Anna into the wagon. The latter throwing Olaf in the back while the former buckles Sven in place with quick and deft hands. He's so occupied that he flinches as Michael jumps at his back whacking away another arrow aimed for the Ice Master's back.

Palming a single knife, Michael chucks it into the direction he saw the arrow originate. The dagger is a streak of silver as it embeds into the rock, but Michael catches shadow movement. Counting his seconds, he hurries to the back of the wagon and fishes out his bow and sheath of twelve arrows.

As he slings the quiver at his back, knocking one arrow and readying to others between his fingers, he peers up as a wraith-like figure lands square in front of him.

By the look of her shape, he can tell it's a female, but –

More of like what's left of a woman . . .

Skeletal in appearance, most of the skin has rotted away, leaving only draping tissue and hardened tendons to hold the limbs and dented pieces of armor together. Her head and helmet are uneven, looking like she'd been cleaved in the head by an axe upon her death. Soulless black eyes are at him from the shadows of the helmet's nose guard, her midriff being nothing more than her spine connecting to her bottom half.

When she opens her mouth, a guttural moan escapes her throat, her lips having shriveled to reveal yellowy-brown teeth.

But over all of that, she reeks of death and decay.

Holy burning hell.

"Go. GO!" Michael bellows.

Kristoff snaps the reins and Sven bolts forward. Both the sisters are in, Michael sprinting after it when he finishes firing his three arrows. As he hurries after the wagon, he sees Elsa stand up and open her palms. He has only a quick nod and a few seconds to leap to the right to avoid the blasts of ice that stream past his head. Michael can feel the bite of the cold as they hit the ground, sense the ice cracking and stretching into sharp points.

"Michael!" Anna cries.

"Just keep going!"

Michael manages to shoot another arrow, easily finding its mark in the creature's chest, but she doesn't go down. It slows her, but not enough.

As he closes in on the wagon that he calls, "What is that thing?"

"Draugr!" Kristoff shouts from the front.

"Draugr?!"

"Yeah!" Olaf suddenly chimes as he pops up from behind Elsa. "They're undead warriors in Old Norse mythology. Usually if a person isn't properly laid to rest, or if they were unwelcomed in the afterlife –"

"Olaf, please, not now!" Elsa barks as she shoves the snowman down.

The ground races by beneath Michael's pounding feet, the morphing seasonal air stinging his lungs. As he runs, he can feel his body enter that uncomfortable place of being warm on the inside but cold with sweat on the outside. He knew he'd pay later for not having warmed up or anything before launching straight into a full sprint.

A piercing scream comes from behind him. It's getting closer.

His nerves prickle. Along his neck and arms, all hairs rise to stand on end.

Elsa takes another few shots, Michael heaving sighs of relief as the cold brushes against his headed skin.

"What do we do?" Anna shouts.

"Just keep going! I'll think of something."

As he finishes his words, Elsa gives a heavy grunt as she shoots a large – and very sharp – icicle straight towards the draugr. Michael risks looking back and finds her shot reigns true.

The icicle has embedded itself into the draugr's head. After a few staggering steps, it collapses onto the forest floor.

In the few seconds of silence, Michael chuckles, his breath sharp. "Or yeah, that'll work."

The group share a collective laugh as Kristoff slows the wagon for Michael to hop in. He begins to slow his run, and just when listening to the eerie nothing might be worse than actually hearing something, a hushed sound – a fast whoosh – breaks through from the line of trees at his right.

Michael jerks his head, an ice pick of fear stabbing him through the middle so that, for a moment, he forgets how to breathe. He has one hand on the wagon.

Whatever it is had been big. As big as a person.

More sounds of twigs cracking.

Skoooosh!

Michael whirls as the sisters huddle against each other, tears beginning to stream down Anna's cheeks. This sound had come from the trees directly across the trail.

It comes again from behind.

Thunder rolls above him. He hears the pop of a branch and the crush of dry leaves. He spins in a circle, and despite the cascade of sudden nose, the rustling and crackling, he can't sense so much as the slightest movement in any direction.

Michael feels his throat constrict and his chest tighten. His heartbeat speeds to triple time. Without warning, Michael slaps his hand on Sven's hind, hard enough to startle the reindeer into full out sprint.

Michael breaks once more into a run, following after the wagon as hard and as fast as his legs could carry him. His palms, cold and sweaty, tighten into fists.

Whatever it is in the woods, it follows him. Out of the corner of one eye, he thinks he saw the edge of a dark something.

Then there's another to his left.

Figures, tall and long, rush through the black gate of trees on either side of him. Their movements too fast. Impossibly fast.

As he speeds up, so did the dappled forms.

They seem to multiply as, out of his periphery, he spots yet another. The one glides away from the others to rush along the group of trees directly beside him. It moves through the trees, through undergrowth, dashing over the dry ground – a rippling form.

Michael risks a quick glance, head-on, but sees nothing, only blackness and tangled branches and the wagon holding the wide-eyed, fearful sisters.

But that's impossible!

Michael readies another arrow, despite how futile it seems. How useless the weapon feels.

He can't outrun them, whatever or whoever they were. He can't gain even the slightest bit of distance, and already a stitch the size of a small ball has begun to knot itself in his side. He blocked out the pain, pushing through the pain.

Run.

Run.

Run!

"Run!" he hears someone hiss. A man.

It comes from the line of trees beside him.

Michael chokes out a low sob as he sees a pair of pale, glowing blue eyes. He can't keep going like this. He can't breathe anymore. His lungs sting from the cold while his sides ache with stiffening pain.

But one look at the raw fear in Elsa's eyes, either for him or for her family, has Michael gritting his teeth and shooting an arrow in a random direction.

Anything to gain a little leverage.

He wills his body to keep moving in spite of his screaming muscles, the torturous ache in his lungs.

"Michael."

The sound of his name whisks by him, caught by the wind and then lost in the rush of leaves scattering around his feet. He heard it, though. His name.

Someone had whispered his name.

That, at last, stops him and brings him stuttering to a halt. The wagon keeps going, despite Elsa's cries of protest.

Good. They need to get to the kingdom; they'll be safer there.

He wheels around, eyes scanning. He gasped for breath, sucking air in huge gulps. He chucks the bow aside and pulls his duel swords, cleverly hidden among his leather suit.

The stench hits him first.

Finally, they emerge.

At least thirteen of those draugr stagger from between the trees, each bearing a different kind of weapon, ones he's seen, others he can't recognize due to their state of rusted decay. He doesn't imagine the weapons being able to hold, but with these undead, he can't be so sure.

Each seem frozen in a different state of decay, their jaws distended, tendons barely holding onto skin and darkened bone; their armor clinking and clanking some bearing helmets, some not, leaving their liver-spotted skulls exposed. Their eyes nothing more than deep, endless wells of ink.

He doesn't have to fight for long. Just long enough.

Thirteen against one. He's faced worse odds, and his opponents had been built to take lives. But they aren't trained killers like he is.

Michael calms his breathing. He steadies himself as he readies his swords.

Their metal armor and heavy steps offer some advantage, because when the first male draugr bearing an axe lunges, Michael easily blocks it, able to sense the second one from behind.

Slowly he can feel them press on him, but he holds his own, buying whatever time he can for that wagon to make it back to Arendelle.

Strike, move, block—over and over.

The sounds of the wagon are gone, but Michael refuses to relent.

There are many questions running through his head as to how these beings walk again, but that'll have to wait.

For now, he'll make sure they'll never want to rise again.