I returned under a sky choked with somber clouds. The snow had thinned to a lazy flurry, drifting in patches across the frozen ground. Where once the valley teemed with the noise of ordinary life, I found silence more profound than I had expected. My frost still lingered, clinging to the walls of the settlement, creeping up the timbers of houses, dusting the walkways where The People went about their daily tasks.

I paused at the edge of the ridge overlooking the settlement. From here, I could see the tall spires of True Ice they had erected—towers that caught the weak light and shimmered faintly. The gates, lined with that same unmeltable ice, stood open. A few warriors in animal-hide cloaks patrolled the ramparts, their breath visible in the cool air, spears in hand. They weren't patrolling against Greenskins, not anymore. They were simply ensuring the safety of the tribe, for predators and other dangers still lurked.

I breathed in, tasting the crispness of the wind. My journey back had taken longer than expected. The lands beyond this valley were now a silent grave, covered in snow and haunted by the remnants of my legion of beasts. The Greenskins in those regions were gone, exterminated. My mind still echoed with the memory of their final cries. I had done what needed to be done.

My gaze fell upon a handful of tribal children hurrying through the open gates. Their steps were quick, but not out of fear. Instead, it was excitement. They laughed, pointing up at me on the ridge. One child ran to a guard, tugged on the guard's cloak, and gestured my way. The guard turned, spotted me, and bowed his head briefly. Then he hurried off inside the settlement, presumably to spread the word that I had returned.

I stepped forward, letting gravity and frost guide me down the gentle slope. My feet left prints of milky ice wherever they touched. The temperature fell a degree or two in my wake, though I tried to keep it gentle for the sake of those within these walls. After all, they were my tribe—my found-family. Or so I'd once thought. Now, there was an unspoken distance that widened with each step I took closer.

By the time I neared the open gates, a crowd had gathered. Men, women, and children stood in a loose semicircle. Their eyes shone with something I initially mistook for relief. But as I drew closer, I spotted the awe in their gazes, the trace of reverence that hadn't been there before. This was not the welcome one gives to a returning comrade. Their posture was different. The warriors bowed their heads fully, pressing their free hands to their chests. The children peered at me with wide eyes, shuffling back behind their parents.

A hush fell.

My heart—if I could still call it that and if I even still had one—twisted with a pang of disappointment. Once, they might have rushed to greet me, smiling, calling my name. Now, they treated me like a vengeful spirit or a revered deity.

Perhaps both.

I exhaled, my breath crystallizing in the air. A faint crackling rose from the ground as I took another step, the frost intensifying in response to my internal shift in mood. I forced it to recede. The last thing I wanted was to freeze them with an accidental surge. And yet, it was a strange thing to consider, especially since my emotions were so hideously muted that it was as though they didn't exist at all.

A single figure parted from the crowd. The elder. She walked with careful grace, bracelets jingling softly on her wrists. She was shorter than me by nearly a head, her features lined with experience. Once, she greeted me with a kindly nod, a small smile. Now, she sank to one knee before me, bowing her head so low that her bracelets brushed the snow. I could not tell her to stop.

I clenched my jaw. A twinge of pain flickered through me. This was the elder who had once argued with me over small matters of tribal law, who had teased me about my stoic ways, who had shared fireside tales with me. Now, she knelt as though I were an angry god demanding worship. I wanted to bid her rise, to tell her to treat me as an equal. But I sensed the crowd. They watched, their eyes full of that same reverential fear.

She spoke, her voice trembling slightly.

"You have returned," she said. "We are… grateful."

I nodded, extending a hand to help her up. She rose at my prompting, but did not meet my gaze directly. The hush in the crowd remained, every face lowered. Some parted lips as though forming prayers. In the back, I noticed children clinging to their mothers, staring at me with a mix of wonder and apprehension.

I took a moment to steady myself. I reminded myself that I had known this might happen. I had demonstrated power far beyond human bounds. I had brought eternal frost, reanimated beasts, and ended a species in the surrounding lands. For them, I was no longer simply "Icewalker." I was something more. Something terrifying. Something revered.

I spotted Tala and Kiluk among the warriors. They, too, stood with spears in hand, heads slightly bowed. When they lifted their eyes, I caught a flicker of emotion I could not name. Respect, yes, but also an acknowledgment of distance. We had once fought side by side. We had once shared hunts, jokes. Now, they seemed uncertain how to address me.

I cleared my throat softly, then inclined my head to the elder.

"I've finished," I signed. "The Greenskins in these regions are gone."

A murmur coursed through the crowd. Some nodded, a few lifted their heads to stare at me in open awe, others pressed their palms together as though in prayer. I let out a breath, my disappointment swelling like a hidden ache. This was not how I wanted them to see me. I wanted acceptance, not worship. Family, not worshipers.

The elder straightened, pulling her shoulders back. She tried to hide the trembling in her hands.

"We… are saved, then," she said quietly. "All thanks to you."

I gave a slight nod.

"Yes," I replied simply.

A hush followed. The People watched me, waiting for some further pronouncement. In the past, we would have broken into chatter—asking for details, for stories of the battles, for recounting of injuries or dangers. Now, they simply waited. I realized they expected a divine statement or a command. The realization felt hollow.

"Here me!" The elder said, raising her hands as she addressed the crowd. "In the old days, our ancestors told tales of a God who brought cold and darkness to the land, a god of winter and death. They called him the Lion of Night."

A pregnant pause lingered about the crowd, before the elder continued. "The Icewalker is the Lion of Night! He is the God of Cold and Darkness, of Winter and Death. And we are his chosen!"

I parted my lips, intending to say something—some reassurance, some invitation to treat me as I had been. But the words stuck. I glimpsed the flicker in their eyes, the fear, the awe. My presence was a chasm between us. If I told them not to bow, would they dare? If I told them to treat me as one of them, would their hearts comply? I also couldn't speak without killing them outright; so, there was that.

So I swallowed and let the silence linger. The People really did not know how to react after her little declaration. That said, the tale of the Lion of Night and the Maiden of Light was one of the most common stories the elder shared whenever the People gathered around the great bonfire on cold nights, beneath a blanket of stars - but that was before we came to this 'civilized' place and joined with the Kingdom of Queen Lysara.

The elder broke the silence of her own making, turning to the crowd.

"Return to your tasks," she said, her voice firm. "He… has done what none of us could have dreamed. Honor him… but do not disturb his rest."

I stifled a sigh. They began to disperse, moving with hushed footsteps. Some paused, bowed to me again, then continued. The children stared longest, eyes wide. One small boy seemed to consider stepping forward. He raised a tiny hand as though he wanted to touch me. I smiled and held out a single finger to meet the child's tiny hand. I held back my frost as much as I could.

The child giggled as his mother pulled him away, smiling and bowing.

I turned to the elder and signed, "I need to think in silence."

The elder fiddled with her bracelets, then gestured for me to follow. We walked through the gates and into the settlement. It had changed, grown in my absence. More structures of True Ice and wood rose from the frosty ground. It was larger now as well. They'd carved up the initial wall and built more structures, even making use of the last of the bones of behemoths we'd carried around to create what appeared to be the foundations of larger buildings.

We reached a central courtyard where a bonfire crackled. People hurried out of our path, lowering their heads as we passed. I inhaled quietly, trying to quash my disappointment. Once, we might have gathered around that fire to share stories. Now, they parted like an obedient congregation. Even the elder maintained a slight distance, as though unsure how close she was allowed to stand.

She guided me to a new longhouse, a building of combined True Ice and hardwood. The door stood open, the interior lit by torches. She bowed her head. "We prepared this place for you. You are so much larger and taller than the rest of us; so, we built you a home, Lion of Night."

I turned to her and signed. "Thank you."

She nodded, stepping aside to let me pass. Inside, the longhouse felt empty. The walls glowed faintly, a property of the True Ice that reflected torchlight in dancing patterns. Fur rugs lay on the floor, and a central hearth burned, its flames contained behind a small partition of ice to keep the heat from warping the structure. A simple cot and a single chair decorated the space. On a nearby table, I noticed fresh bowls of food, steaming faintly, though my appetite had long since dulled.

I closed the door, then set my hand against it, letting out a low breath. My reflection peered back at me from the glossy ice. My eyes glowed with a pale luminescence. My hair, once dark, was now as white as the snow outside. My skin possessed an unearthly pallor, reminiscent of carved marble. I looked almost as inhuman as those beasts I commanded. No wonder the tribe now feared me.

A bitter pang welled in my chest. This was exactly what I'd dreaded. By saving them, I had isolated myself from them. The more I used my power, the less I resembled anything mortal. The more they worshiped me, the lonelier I became.

But was there any other way?

I turned from my reflection, crossing the room to the chair. I sank onto it, letting my frost coil faintly around my ankles. My thoughts churned with memories of battles. My will had scoured entire continents of Greenskins. My own presence had reshaped the climate, coating miles of land in perpetual ice. I had stepped beyond mortal ken, ascended to something godlike.

So be it, I thought, though the hollowness in my chest did not fade. Perhaps this was inevitable.

I sat there in the stillness of the longhouse, letting the torches flicker. My senses stretched across the settlement, across the fields, reading each whisper of the wind, each heartbeat of distant watchers.

I closed my eyes, turning inward. My mind, if I allowed it, could race at speeds incomprehensible to normal humans. I had used my abilities superficially, enough to crush entire armies. But I sensed that was only a sliver of what I could do.

I let go of the normal pace of thought. Instantly, time around me seemed to freeze. The flicker of the torch halted mid-sway, the flame suspended in mid-lunge, its ember sparks still in the air. The soft crackle of burning wood vanished. Even the subtle swirl of dust motes hovered, locked in place. I realized I had entered a realm of hyper-accelerated cognition, a state where my mind soared far beyond mortal speed.

I began to think. And I thought for a long time.

Minutes of outside time expanded into years—then decades, then a century. The torch never moved. The dust never fell. From my perspective, I lived entire lifetimes in that suspended instant, sifting through possibilities, moral quandaries, strategic calculations. I debated with the ghost of my old human self, wrestling with the ethics of what I had done, the path I had chosen. I considered the future of this world, the fate of The People, and by extension, all humanity.

Could I truly protect them forever?

What about the threats beyond Greenskins—those lurking in cosmic shadows, or other empires that might one day encroach?

I mused on the difference between being a guardian and a deity. My old self recoiled at the notion of godhood, but the present me recognized the inevitability. This gulf of power could not be bridged. Even if I pretended to be mortal, the truth would show itself in every action. That gap would always stand between me and them. They would worship me or fear me. Perhaps both.

But maybe that could be used for good.

If I allowed them to treat me as a deity, then I could guide them, shape them, ensure their progress and survival. It meant accepting a lonely throne, but it also meant forging a future for them in a world fraught with danger. If I united the whole planet and ensured that every single threat was dealt with, then I'd have nothing to ever worry about, right?

I sat, immersed in that hyper-thought, for what felt like a century. I pictured new structures rising across the land—human cities that could harness the True Ice responsibly, forging a stable climate. I pictured forging alliances with other tribes, with other mortal races, unifying them under a banner of survival and progress. After all, the Greenskins somehow had guns - actual firearms, which I'd almost forgotten about, until the barbarian creatures used them at me. Therefore, the necessary materials needed for the creation of such weapons and the infrastructure needed to build them already existed on this world.

Progress and peace were not mere ideas to strive towards, but actual, tangible goals.

At last, I ended my century of silent reflection. I allowed time to flow again. The torch flame flickered, completing its half-flicker motion in a blink. Dust motes resumed their lazy dance. My breath came in softly. Only a fraction of a second had passed in the real world. Outside, the hush lingered, unbroken.

I rose from the chair, letting the frost swirl around my feet. There was no more hesitation in me. I had made my choice. If they saw me as a god, then so be it. I would be the god that guarded them from any threat, be it Greenskins or everything else. I would be the winter that nurtured rather than only destroyed. The night did not have to mean death. The night was calm and beautiful and tranquil. It was the darkness that heralded the day, after all. The elder called me the Lion of Night; it was an epithet I could easily mantle. I would walk that line carefully, mindful of my power, mindful of their fragility.

If I was to be a god, then I was going to play that role perfectly.

AN: Chapter 13 is out on (Pat)reon!