I grab another by the waist, lifting him overhead. His bones snap like dry branches as I bend him backward until his spine breaks. I plow through them like the great Northern winds. Fierce. Relentless.
She trusted me to protect her.
The others run, or at least, they try. One man scrambles backward on the ice, clawing at the snow, eyes wide with the kind of terror that turns men into prey. I descend upon him like the storm itself, my foot pressing down until his ribs crack beneath my weight.
He gasps, pleading. As if that would save him. But it is his mistake, because the only voice I want to hear, need to hear right now, is silenced. I seize him by the leg and swing. His body slams into rock, bones shattering on impact. Once. Twice. A final, sickening crack. I let what remains of him fall to the ground in a useless heap.
She fought for me. And I doubted her.
A snarl cuts through the air, sharp and furious. The wolf with its teeth bared, hackles raised, has returned. I whirl to face it, growling back, my own hackles raised and claws extended. I am one with my beast. The wolf whimpers in response, tucks its tail, and bolts back into the trees.
I spin in a circle, looking for my next target, but only one remains.
Ben.
He stands frozen, his gun shaking in his grip, ragged breath misting the frozen air. I am on him before he can think to run. His scream is cut short as I lift him from the ground. He flails, kicking at empty air, his boots scraping uselessly against my chest.
I stare into his eyes. I want him to understand. I want him to see. All the men like him. All the destruction. All the greed. All the pain.
He will be the last. I will make sure of it.
I tighten my grip. He gurgles, his face turning red, then purple. His heartbeat hammers against my palm, frantic. I could crush him. Snap his spine. Tear him apart.
But that is too kind.
I step to the very edge of the mountain, my feet steady and sure, never tearing my eyes from his as they begin to slowly turn red from the pressure. I let him dangle, let his terror bloom like the rarest flower.
The storm resumes in earnest around us, the mountain crying out for vengeance. The cliffs above groan as snow shifts, fractures deepening, the land itself demanding justice.
Then—I roar. A sound so raw, so deafening, it shatters the ice beneath our feet. I do not care. Let the mountain take me as well. I am ready to meet my Winter Star in whatever lies beyond this world.
Ben shakes, pupils blown wide. His mouth moves, but no words can escape the crushing grip I have on his throat.
Good. He deserves no last words. He chokes out a faint gurgle, desperately trying to move air into his lungs while his fingers scrabble at my wrist, clawing for purchase, for mercy.
Mercy.
I think of Dahlia, lying in the snow. Her body breaking toprotect me. I think of the fear in her eyes—not of me, but for me. I think of what I almost let myself believe.
He made me doubt her. He made me hesitate. He made me see her as something weak, something selfish—when she was always the strongest of us.
I snarl, tightening my grip, and feel something snap beneath my fingers.
Ben chokes, a strangled, pitiful sound. His lips move, attempting to form words—a desperate plea from a desperate man.
I do not care.
I lift him higher. Hold him there. Let him know he is nothing. He has always been nothing so I will return him to it. I pull back and hurl him into the sky. For a moment, he flies. Arms flailing. Finally able to breathe, he lets out an agonized, hoarse scream.
Then—he falls. The abyss takes him. The last echo of his cry stretches out, fading, until it is swallowed by the earth. The mountain’s call for sacrifice, my call for vengeance, my Sruhnar’s blood debt has been satisfied.
When silence reigns once more, I stop and take a shuddering breath. My chest constricts, my heart scarcely able to beat in a chest that has caved in on itself. The bloodlust still thrums in my veins, but something colder grips me now. Darker.
All-consuming grief. A companion I had hoped never to see again.
I turn to look upon her one last time where she lies in the snow. My Dahlia is movement and light and laughter. And now, she is still. So still.
The world shifts—no more fury, no more vengeance. Just—silence.
