Page 36 of Cursed Shadows 4

Two litalves, one far out with the dokkalves, but not battling, all moving steadily.

Another litalf—of brown leathers—has his back to the shoreline. His steps are soft-footed, glacial in pace, but aimed in the other direction. He moves towards the other fae.

The scene isn’t unlike a sluggish beat of time, everything slowed down around him.

Rune moves in a measured zigzag, sidestepping and sliding, as though avoiding tricks on the ice.

Cracks, Daxeel realises.

Rune is surrounded by cracks.

The ice is unsteady.

And that is why Rune released the signal.

A fight breaks out on this glacier… they all go down.

Daxeel shoves into action. He runs along the border of the glacier.

Ahead, the brown leathered litalf is shaky on his feet. But with his back to Daxeel, he hasn’t noticed him as he focuses on the risk he takes—he heads deeper along the glacier, despite the cracks. The litalf apparently has decided that the dokkalves stranded up in the vastness are worthy targets.

In that, he makes a mistake.

Because it opens his back to Daxeel—and snatches the invitation. He skids onto the ice. His boots slide over the slipperysurface, dampened by the faint sprinkle of snowfall. It eases the skid of his boots along the ice.

The cold bite of the howling wind is an ice-burn on his cheeks. It doesn’t slow him down.

His boots ease over the ice, smooth, and as he advances on the litalf, he drops into a crouch.

The litalf staggers around.

Wild pink eyes, the same fleshy colour of organs, swerve to Daxeel. But the litalf reacted too late, heard his advancement too late—and Daxeel spins around at the last moment.

His hands reach over his own shoulder for the light male’s neck. He twists—and yanks, hard.

The litalf’s neck shatters in his grip. Like a dried-out branch, the breaks crackle and snap.

He releases the suddenly limp weight of the light one. Digging his heels into the ice, he halts his pace, and dips down to snag the bow and arrow from the litalf’s dead grip.

He stays crouched.

Resting the arrow on his lap, he spindles out a fine rope—as thin as thread but as strong as metal—and fastens it around the arrowhead.

He lifts his gaze.

Closer now, Rune has turned his cheek to Daxeel.

His mouth moves, his hand waves, finger points—and he’s shouting at the dokkalf coming too close to him.

Daxeel frowns on the scene for a moment before he traces Rune’s gesture to the glacier.

And he understands it.

The ice is already cracking.

And the closer the other dokkalf gets to Rune, the farther those cracks will spread, the deeper they will run—until the ice breaks, and they both fall to their icy deaths.

Another problem looms over the glacier.

---