Paths Beyond (Under Rewrite)

Once again, this is over 3000 words. I think it does give a break to the action. It will slow down just a bit before picking right back up. I have a feeling this arc will be ending soon.

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The village gates creaked open, the sound groaning like an old wound torn fresh. Elder stood at the threshold, a gnarled hand clutching his weathered staff, the other raised to shield his weary eyes from the pale light of dawn. His shadow stretched long across the frostbitten ground, merging with those of the village elders gathered behind him—men and women carved from decades of harsh winters and harder choices. Their faces were etched with lines of grief and worry, their breath misting faintly in the cold air.

But nothing could have prepared them for the sight before them.

The sleds creaked as they were pulled through the gates, their runners carving thin scars into the snow. They were heavy with the dead, the lifeless forms beneath thick, bloodstained pelts barely concealed. The scent of copper clung to the air, sharp and unrelenting, seeping into every breath.

Elder's knuckles turned white around his staff as his frail shoulders trembled. His voice, cracked and fragile, barely carried over the cold wind.

"So many..."

Atop the sleds lay Spider's entire squad—all but Daunt, who stood silent, his hollow eyes fixed on the snow. Three more from Brawl's team lay among the fallen. Wild stood apart, her club still clutched in trembling hands.

And Keen... Keen carried the broken remains of the elk-like creature they had slain. Its glass-like body shimmered faintly in the dim light, its jagged edges catching the dawn and scattering faint rainbows across Keen's frostbitten face. The beast's body was a cruel trophy—majestic even in death, and yet a reminder of all they had lost.

On two separate sleds lay Brawl and Shot.

Brawl, the unyielding shield of his squad, now looked fragile, his once-broad shoulders marred with blackened burns and ice-crusted puncture wounds. His breath came in shallow gasps, each exhale clawing weakly at the freezing air.

Beside him, Shot lay still, her thigh wrapped hastily in soaked layers of cloth, the wound still seeping where the ice spear had torn through. Her face was ashen, her lips pale, her brow glistening with fevered sweat despite the biting cold.

Keen stepped forward, exhaustion carved into every line of his face. His voice, though steady, carried a weight like stones in a frozen river.

"Elder, we need privacy. The villagers can't see us—not like this."

His hand gestured briefly toward the sleds—the bodies, the fragile line between the living and the dead.

"The dead deserve dignity. And we need care. Now."

Elder swallowed hard. His throat bobbed once, twice, before he nodded, his voice trembling but firm.

"Fetch the handlers. The ones who prepare the dead. No one else must know—not yet. Let it be understood: they will speak of this to no one. I will address the village tomorrow."

The elders shuffled away, their silence heavy, their steps uncertain as they melted into the gathering mist.

Elder turned back to Keen, his pale eyes clouded with grief and exhaustion.

"We will move the wounded first. Along the walls, to the storehouse. There, we'll tend to their injuries. And you can wash the blood from your hands. When it's done, we'll talk. Leave the bodies here."

Keen's gaze lingered briefly on the sleds carrying Brawl and Shot. Despite the crude wrappings, fresh blood still seeped through, staining the wood beneath them. Their breathing—so faint, so fragile—whispered of minutes slipping away.