Garrett Ironpeak's Arc

Chapter 1 of 6

Garrett Ironpeak came to this frozen wild to stop killing. He built his home with his own hands instead. A ring of sharpened stakes circled the log walls. A rough watchtower rose above the roof. From up there he could see the whole white valley. He told himself the wall would keep the world out. Tonight the world tested that promise. He smelled them before he saw them. Wet fur and old blood on the wind. He climbed the tower and counted shapes moving through the snow. Wolves. But wrong. Each one stood taller than a bear, pale as the drifts, with wild eyes that caught the last light. Six of them, maybe more. They had found his scent and followed it to his door. Garrett gripped the tower rail. One man, one wall, one long night ahead. The stakes would slow the pack. They would not stop it. He had seen animals like these tear through timber. His scarred hands remembered the war he came here to leave behind. He went down and took the glaive from its pegs. The long blade ran with faint blue light, like lightning trapped in steel. Beside it hung the bow, its wood marked with ember lines. He slung the quiver across his back. He had sworn never to lift these again. He lifted them anyway. The first wolf hit the stakes at a run. It screamed and pulled back, blood dark on its chest. Garrett climbed to the tower and drew the bow. He spoke one word. "Ignis." An arrow of fire appeared on the string. He loosed it. The shaft struck the lead wolf and burst into flame across its shoulder. It rolled in the snow, howling. He fired again and again. Each pull gave him a new arrow. Fire lit the dark and drove the pack back from the wall. But the wolves were smart. They circled wide, out of range, testing the far side. Two leapt the stakes where the drifts had piled high. Garrett dropped the bow and took up the glaive. He met the first wolf in his own yard. The blade came down and lightning cracked along the edge. The wolf fell and did not rise. The second lunged for his throat. He turned and drove the point through its chest. His arm shook. His breath tore. But the two lay still in the snow. The rest of the pack watched from the tree line. Their leader stood among them, one shoulder charred, eyes fixed on Garrett. It did not charge. It turned and led the others back into the dark. The night went quiet. Garrett leaned on the glaive and breathed. He had held the wall. He had kept his home. But he looked at the drifts piled against his stakes and knew the truth. The snow had built a ramp over his defenses. The pack had learned it. And they would come back for the rest.