"Don't look back," Garran muttered through chattering teeth, his words whipped away by the howling wind. The storm clawed at him, a vicious, biting cold that gnawed at his bones. Snow pelted down in blinding waves, as if the very air had teeth. He stumbled forward, half-blind, relying on instinct more than sight to push through the blizzard.
No one answered him. There was no room for words anymore. The others followed in his wake—four figures huddled in tattered furs, faces half-hidden beneath layers of ice-crusted scarves and hoods. The snow swirled around them in dizzying spirals, white and grey merging in a dance that blurred the line between sky and earth. The storm was a living thing, a predator gnawing at the edges of their sanity.
Garran no longer knew if they were alive or dead; they were simply moving, as much a part of the storm as the snow itself. The snowstorm raged, relentless, a wall of wind that screamed and shrieked as it tore across the frozen tundra. The ground beneath their feet was treacherous, alternating between jagged ice and deep drifts that threatened to bury them alive. The cold was not simply a sensation—it was an entity, sinking into bones, stealing warmth with fingers as sharp as broken glass. This was a place that had never known mercy.
"I said—don't look back!" Garran snarled, this time louder, his voice brittle with desperation. He knew they wouldn't listen. They were all frayed at the edges, thoughts fraying like old cloth under the weight of fear and exhaustion. Two days ago—had it really only been two days?—they had been a dozen strong, full of bluster and bravado as they set foot on these cursed shores, driven by promises of glory and riches buried beneath the ice. Now, they were four—if you could still call them that. Survivors, in name only.
The leaden sky above them was bruised with dark purples and greys, heavy with snow. What little light remained was pale and sickly, the sun hidden somewhere beyond the clouds, more memory than reality. Shadows stretched long and strange across the ground, twisting and shivering like things alive. Even in daylight, this land was a graveyard.
To their left, a jagged ridge loomed like the broken spine of some forgotten giant, rising out of the snow in wicked, serrated points. The air was thick with ice crystals that clung to eyelashes and stung at exposed skin, giving the world an eerie, shimmering quality—like stepping into a half-remembered dream. Yet there was nothing warm or comforting in this dream; it was a nightmare drawn in shades of grey and white.
"We should've stayed by the wreck," Thane rasped from the back of the line, his voice trembling. "Should've lit a fire, waited it out. There's nothing out here—nothing but death."
Thane, a wiry man who had once been full of bluster and cocky bravado. The youngest among them, his sharp features were now gaunt and hollow, his eyes darting nervously with every gust of wind. His cloak, more patchwork than fabric, billowed out behind him as he struggled to keep up. He muttered under his breath, prayers to gods he'd never believed in before the storm. His hands were rubbed raw, fingertips blackened from frostbite—desperation had long since settled in his bones.
"There's death behind us too, Thane," Garran shot back, though his words carried little strength. He didn't need to say what they all knew—the wreck was no safer than the wastes. The ship, twisted and broken on the rocks, was a tomb now. They had been fools to think they could survive the crash, let alone what came after.
Elara, the only woman among them, walked in silence between the two men. Her eyes were distant, locked somewhere far beyond the swirling snow. She clutched a frayed map to her chest, though it had become little more than a symbol of false hope. There were no landmarks, no roads, nothing to guide them. The map might as well have been a piece of useless parchment for all the good it did. Yet still, she held onto it, her fingers numb and blue around the edges.
"I dreamt of this place once," she murmured, her voice carried away on the wind before anyone could respond. Her face was gaunt beneath her hood, cheeks hollowed from hunger and cold. "It was dark then, too. Snow falling like ash from a dead sky… and eyes, watching from the shadows."
Garran glanced at her sharply but said nothing. He had no patience left for Elara's mutterings, though he couldn't shake the unease that curled in his gut every time she spoke like that—as if she had seen things no one should see, things that had no place in this world. Thane had taken to crossing himself whenever she mentioned her dreams. Superstitions clung to them like the frost; the line between fear and prophecy was thin here, where the land itself seemed to whisper of ancient evils.
At the head of the line, old Beric pressed forward, his broad shoulders hunched against the storm. The veteran warrior's face was hidden beneath a heavy fur hood, but the strain in his steps was clear. He was the strongest of them—had always been—but even he was faltering now. Each breath was a struggle, leaving trails of mist that were snatched away by the wind. The axe strapped to his back seemed heavier with each passing moment, a burden rather than a weapon.
"Something's wrong," Beric growled, slowing his pace. He scanned the horizon, though there was little to see beyond the wall of white. "The wind… it's colder, sharper. We should find shelter—quickly."
"Shelter?" Thane laughed, a hollow, hysterical sound. "There's nothing out here, just ice and ghosts! You know the stories—this land is cursed! There's nothing alive out here. Nothing but—"
His voice cut off as they all stopped, staring into the blizzard. The snow whipped around them in frenzied gusts, but something was moving in the distance—a shape, shifting within the storm. For a moment, Garran thought it was just another mirage, a trick of the light, but then he saw them too. Lights—dim at first, barely visible through the swirling snow. Red and blue, flickering like dying embers.
"Elara?" Beric's voice was hoarse, laced with dread.
She shook her head slowly, her eyes wide and unblinking. "No… not fire. Eyes. They're watching."
The lights grew brighter, bobbing and swaying in the storm's grip. There were more of them now, dozens of pairs, moving closer, growing sharper in the darkening storm. A deep chill, colder than the wind, settled over them—a cold that gnawed at the spirit as much as the flesh.
Garran's hand found the hilt of his sword, though he knew, deep down, that steel would do nothing against whatever was out there. The storm seemed to pulse, alive with an ancient, malevolent presence. A low, rumbling noise rose above the wind, like the groan of something vast stirring beneath the ice.
"They're coming," Thane whimpered, his voice breaking. "We have to—"
The snow exploded around them as shadows detached from the storm, figures wrapped in frost and death. Their skin was pale as moonlight, their bodies clad in tattered remnants of ancient armour, half-frozen to their flesh. Those eyes—icy blue and burning red—seared into the night, filled with a hunger older than time itself.
They ran—or tried to. The snow was treacherous, each step a struggle against drifts that reached up to their knees. The lights moved closer, flitting between the snowflakes, and with them came shadows—tall, gaunt figures barely visible in the storm, clad in tattered armour and furs stiffened with age and frost.
Thane screamed as something grabbed him from behind, a clawed hand wrapping around his throat and pulling him into the darkness. His scream cut off abruptly, replaced by the wet crunch of bone and the slick sound of blood splattering across the snow.
Beric roared, swinging his axe in a wide arc, but he hit nothing but air. The shadows were too fast, darting in and out of view, their eyes gleaming with that terrible red-blue glow. One leapt at him, its teeth gnashing as it drove a blade deep into his side. Beric grunted, but he didn't go down easily—he slammed the creature into the snow, but it twisted unnaturally, wrapping itself around him with sinewy limbs, and bit deep into his neck. Blood sprayed in dark rivulets as Beric's roar turned to a gurgling choke.
Garran ran, the wind tearing at his furs, ice crystals stinging his face. He didn't look back. He couldn't. His legs burned with every step, his lungs felt like they were filled with shards of ice, but he kept running. The lights were all around him now, flickering in and out of the snow, growing ever closer. He could hear them—footsteps crunching in the snow, low whispers carried on the wind, the hiss of blades slicing through the air.
Elara's scream rang out, shrill and piercing, but it was cut off almost as quickly as it began. The storm devoured her cry, leaving only silence and the endless howling wind.
Garran's vision blurred with tears and sweat as he pushed onward. He didn't know where he was running to—only that he had to keep going. Then, through the curtain of snow, he saw it—a dark shape looming ahead, its outline jagged and broken.
The tomb.
It rose out of the storm like a monolith, its stone entrance half-buried beneath drifts of snow. The structure was ancient, weathered by untold centuries, its stones dark and slick with ice. Strange runes, half-faded and twisted, wound their way around the pillars that flanked the entrance, whispering of a time lost to memory. The door, a gaping black maw, seemed to beckon him forward, promising refuge from the storm.
Garran stumbled toward it, nearly collapsing as his legs finally gave out beneath him. He dragged himself forward, fingers clawing at the ice, heart pounding in his chest. The wind was deafening now, roaring with a fury that rattled his bones, but he crawled on, desperate to reach the darkened threshold.
The tomb's shadow enveloped him as he pulled himself inside, and the wind's howl died abruptly, replaced by a heavy, oppressive silence. The darkness closed in, thick and suffocating, pressing down on him like the weight of ages. Garran's breath came in ragged, shallow gasps, his fingers numb and clumsy as he fumbled for his flint.
He struck it once, twice, three times before a spark caught. The torch flared to life, casting a flickering, wavering light that barely pushed back the shadows. The chamber was vast, the ceiling lost in darkness above, and the walls lined with ancient stone sarcophagi, their lids sealed tight with runes that glowed faintly in the torchlight. The air was thick with dust and the scent of decay, the kind that clings to forgotten places, buried and undisturbed for centuries.
Garran staggered to his feet, his legs trembling beneath him. He could barely feel them now—numb with cold and exhaustion. But he was alive. He was still—
A faint sound echoed through the chamber. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. It was a whisper—a soft, sibilant hiss that slithered through the air, barely audible above the beating of his heart. He turned, torch held high, eyes scanning the shadows.
Nothing moved. The tomb was empty—silent, save for the distant moan of the wind outside. But there was something here, he could feel it—something old and terrible, waiting in the dark.
He took a step forward, the torchlight trembling as he raised it higher. The stone beneath his feet was slick with frost, the runes beneath it half-faded and twisted into unfamiliar patterns. He didn't recognise the language—not quite—but it tugged at the edges of his mind, like a memory from a dream half-remembered.
A carved pillar loomed out of the darkness, etched with more of those twisted runes. Garran's eyes narrowed as he traced them with the torchlight. They were crude, primitive, the kind he'd
seen only in the oldest ruins back in Skyrim—marks left by hands from a time before time, when men were just beginning to carve their stories into stone. The runes wound upward in spirals, warping and coiling like vines, whispering words he couldn't understand but could feel, deep in his bones.
A chill crept up Garran's spine, more than just the cold. There was something deeply wrong here, something that gnawed at the edges of his sanity. This was no ordinary tomb. It was a place that had been forgotten for a reason—a place that was never meant to be found again.
He forced himself to move, one slow step at a time, deeper into the chamber. His breath came in shallow gasps, each one rattling in his chest. The torch flickered and sputtered, casting shadows that twisted and danced like living things. He could feel the weight of the darkness pressing in from all sides, a thick, cloying presence that seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat.
At the far end of the chamber, a dais rose from the stone floor, half-buried beneath layers of frost. On it lay a single sarcophagus, larger and more ornate than the others. The lid was carved with the likeness of a warrior—a figure clad in ancient, unfamiliar armour, his face stern and cold. The sword in his hands was unlike any Garran had ever seen, its blade etched with runes that glowed faintly in the dim light, as if still holding onto some forgotten power.
Garran's eyes narrowed as he looked closer. There was something about the warrior's face—something unsettlingly familiar. But it wasn't the face itself that held his attention; it was the runes carved around the edge of the lid. They weren't like the others—these were more precise, deliberate, as if they had been carved not by hands but by something sharper, more intent. They tugged at the edges of his memory, a nagging sense of recognition that made his heart race.
He knelt beside the sarcophagus, his breath fogging up the air. His fingers, numb and trembling, traced the runes. The language was ancient, far older than anything he had studied, but he could almost make out fragments, hints of meaning buried beneath layers of time. Words like blood, oath, forgotten king.
He knew now, without understanding how, where he truly was—a place whispered of in myths and sagas, a land lost to ice and death. The cradle of mankind, the birthplace of legends and horrors alike. They had crossed more than a sea; they had crossed into a place that should have remained buried beneath ice and shadow.
A scraping sound jerked him from his thoughts. It was faint but unmistakable—the grating of stone against stone. Garran shot to his feet, heart pounding in his chest, eyes darting to the shadows that seemed to shift and flicker at the edges of the torchlight. The air was suddenly thick with a sense of anticipation, like the moment before a predator strikes.
The whispering grew louder, a low, droning chant that seemed to rise from the very walls, echoing through the chamber. Garran's hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, but deep down, he knew it would do no good. There was no fighting whatever had awakened here. The tomb itself was alive, a presence older than anything he could comprehend, and it had sensed his intrusion.
The runes on the sarcophagus began to glow, pulsing with an eerie, bluish light. The lid trembled, shifting ever so slightly as the ancient seals struggled against whatever lay beneath. A low moan filled the chamber, not of wind but of something long dead—something that had waited in darkness, dreaming of life once more.
Garran took a step back, every instinct screaming at him to flee, but his legs refused to obey. The whispering grew louder, the chant rising in pitch, filling his mind with images of battles fought in snow and blood, of a time when this land was not yet a frozen wasteland but a kingdom ruled by iron and death.
Then, without warning, the lid of the sarcophagus slid open with a deafening crash. The runes flared brightly for an instant before winking out, leaving only darkness. Garran's torch sputtered, the flame guttering as the cold deepened, the air thick with the scent of decay.
A figure rose from the darkness—a tall, gaunt shape wrapped in tattered, frost-bitten armour, its skin pale and stretched tight over bones. Its eyes were hollow, empty sockets that burned with a baleful light, one blue and one red. The sword in its hands, still etched with those glowing runes, hummed with a power that thrummed through the very air.
Garran stumbled backward, the breath frozen in his throat. The creature's gaze fixed on him, its mouth opening in a soundless scream, a cry that reverberated through the chamber, shaking the very walls. The whispering became a roar, a cacophony of voices speaking in a language long dead, echoing in his skull.
He turned and ran. He didn't care where, didn't care if it meant running back into the storm. He just knew he had to get away, away from whatever horror had been unleashed. His feet slipped on the icy stone as he dashed down the dark corridor, the torch sputtering and flickering in his hand. The air grew colder with every step, his breath coming in ragged gasps that tore at his lungs.
But he wasn't fast enough.
The first arrow struck him in the back, sending a shock of pain lancing through his body. He staggered, nearly falling as his vision blurred with tears. He felt more than heard the second arrow bury itself in his shoulder, the impact driving him to his knees. Blood seeped from the wounds, hot and thick against the freezing cold, staining the snow beneath him.
He crawled forward, dragging himself through the biting cold, every movement an agony. His fingers left streaks of red across the ice-slicked stone as he reached out, desperate for something—anything—to hold onto. But there was nothing. Just the dark, the cold, and the sound of his own labored breathing.
The whispering was back, softer now, more insidious—a lullaby for the dying. The runes on the walls flickered faintly, casting sickly shadows that twisted in impossible ways. He could feel the presence closing in around him, the cold eyes burning with hunger.
With one final effort, Garran pulled himself to his feet. The pain was unbearable now, his vision dimming as his blood poured freely from his wounds. He stumbled forward, reaching for the stone ledge of what looked like an altar. His hand brushed against something cold and metallic, and he realized it was a helmet—ancient and ornate, its design familiar in a way that sent a shiver of recognition through him.
But he never got the chance to examine it. The third arrow struck him in the chest, driving the breath from his lungs. He collapsed against the stone, the world spinning as darkness closed in around him. The torch clattered to the floor, the flame snuffing out in the freezing air.
As Garran lay there, dying on the cold stone, his thoughts drifted back to the start of it all—the ship setting sail into uncharted waters, the promises of discovery and glory. It had all been for nothing. They had been fools chasing shadows, searching for something that should have remained forgotten.
His breath rattled in his chest, each one a struggle as the cold finally claimed him. His vision blurred, fading to black as the whispering grew softer, more distant. The last thing he saw was the red and blue glow of those eyes, watching him from the shadows.
With his final breath, Garran's lips moved, barely forming the word that echoed in the silence:
"Valen..."
The tomb's darkness swallowed him whole, and the storm outside raged on, sealing the entrance once more under layers of ice and snow. But something had been disturbed—something old and patient, waiting for this moment.
And now it was awake.