The cough tore from Kavira’s chest, a raw, ragged sound that clawed at her windpipe. It wasn’t the biting mountain air, nor the dust of a dozen forgotten trails. This was deeper, a tremor from within. She hunched forward, knuckles white on the rough wool of her tunic, spitting discreetly into the churned snow just shy of the Karst Watch’s colossal, iron-bound gates. A glint. Not ice, but something sharper, more defined. Nestled in the pink-tinged slush was a shard, no bigger than her smallest fingernail, perfectly faceted, like a chip from a master carver’s crystal. It pulsed faintly, a cold, internal light. Air caught in Kavira's lungs, stalled not by exertion, but by a familiar, freezing dread. The Glass-Rot. A silent, merciless sculptor, slowly chiseling her into a monument of her own demise. Her gaze flickered. No one had seen. The gaggle of other novices, a collection of hopeful, shivering youths, were too absorbed in the grim grandeur of the fortress. Its walls, a sheer rise of dark, scarred stone, seemed to absorb the weak winter light, standing sentinel over the jagged peaks of the Greyvein Spires. Above them, a single, baleful eye of a window peered out, like a titan’s warning. Quickly, she nudged the shard with her boot, burying it deeper in the snow. Her fingers, despite the cold, felt a phantom itch where the mineral edge had scraped her gullet. *Not yet*, she told the dying parts of herself. *Not here. Not now.* She straightened, pulling the stiff collar of her coarse brown tunic higher, tugging the brim of her cap low over her eyes. Kavir. That was the name she wore here, as heavy and cold as the iron bracers on her wrists. A shadow detached itself from the fortress walls, less a shadow and more a living cinder. Grit, her corvid companion, landed silently on her shoulder, a rustle of ash-dark feathers. One beady eye, sharp as a honed obsidian point, flicked from the gates to the snow where the shard lay hidden, then back to Kavira’s face. He knew. He always knew. “Quiet, you,” she murmured, her voice a low rasp. “No mischief. Not yet.” Grit ruffled his plumage, a tiny, knowing trill vibrating through his beak. A sudden, guttural roar ripped through the mountain air, rattling the iron gates. It wasn't the wind. The newcomers, who had been muttering nervously amongst themselves, froze. A collective gasp rose, quickly swallowed by the shriek that followed. A hulking shape burst from the swirling fog that clung to the fortress’s base, not twenty paces from the shivering line of recruits. It was a beast of the Blight, a Vormir brute. Its hide was a mottled grey-green, scarred with jagged mineral encrustations that shimmered with an unhealthy luminescence. Two wickedly curved horns, like polished obsidian, jutted from its broad skull, and its eyes, devoid of pupils, glowed with an eerie, internal light. It was a lumbering brute, but its speed was terrifying as it charged, emitting a raw, challenging bellow. Panic erupted. The recruits scattered like startled grouse, their nervous chatter turning into choked cries. Blades, drawn too slowly, glinted uselessly in trembling hands. Kavira didn’t move. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, locked onto the beast. It was slow to turn, powerful but unwieldy. A weakness. “Get back!” a voice boomed, clear and resonant, cutting through the chaos. A young man, barely older than Kavira, with hair the colour of polished oak and eyes like chips of clear ice, pushed forward from the fleeing crowd. Garek Vond, the prodigy, the favored son, already wearing the silver sunburst badge of an Ascendant in training. He pushed through the snow with balanced strides, drawing a double-edged axe from his back. His gaze swept the beast, assessing, strategizing. Kavira, however, saw something else. She saw Elian, a trembling boy with wide, frightened eyes, stumbling directly into the monster's path. He was fumbling with a short-sword, his face pale with terror. An opportunity. Without a moment’s hesitation, Kavira’s foot shot out. Not a trip, but a precise shove, just enough to send Elian sprawling directly in front of the charging beast. The young man cried out, a pathetic, terrified sound as the creature's shadow fell over him. “Run, you fool!” Garek bellowed, already halfway to Elian, his axe raised. But Kavira was faster. As the beast lowered its head to gore Elian, its glass horns glinting, Kavira darted forward. She didn’t aim for the beast’s head, nor its thick hide. Instead, she drove her short-sword, a simple but well-honed blade, directly into the soft underbelly, just behind its foreleg. It was an ugly, vulnerable spot, exposed for a fleeting second as the beast overextended. The beast roared, a sound of agony and rage, its massive body shuddering. It twisted, lashing out blindly with a clawed foreleg. Kavira ducked, narrowly avoiding a blow that would have shattered her ribs. The fiend flailed, its momentum carrying it past Elian, who lay gasping in the snow. With a sickening crunch, the calcified ridges on its hide scraped against the stone gates, leaving gouges. Kavira pulled her blade free, a gush of dark blood following it. The creature stumbled, a guttural gurgle rising in its chest. It collapsed, its powerful legs giving out, its glowing eyes dimming to a dull, lifeless grey. The air grew still, save for Elian's whimpers and the heavy thud of the beast’s final breath. Garek stood over Elian, his axe still held ready, his face a mask of furious disbelief. He looked from the dead carcass to Kavira, his pale eyes fixed with cold anger. “You used him,” he said, his voice low, a controlled tremor beneath the words. “You used him as bait.” Kavira wiped her bloody blade on the snow, her expression unreadable. “He was slow. It was efficient.” She met Garek’s gaze, offering no apology, no flicker of remorse. Only a cold, unyielding practicality. Garek’s mouth tightened, tension knotting along his cheek. “There are other ways to kill a monster, Kavir. Ways that don’t sacrifice the weak.” “The weak die,” Kavira stated, a simple truth in her world. “Survival is earned.” As the other trainees slowly began to pick themselves up, some staring in horrified awe, others in disgust, Grit launched himself from Kavira’s shoulder. He swooped low, a blur of dark feathers, landing silently on the belt of a stocky guard who had just emerged from the gates, drawn by the commotion. With a swift peck, Grit snatched a small, glinting silver badge—a stylized mountain peak—from the guard’s uniform. He took flight again, vanishing into the swirling fog with his new prize, a tiny spark of silver disappearing into the grey. The massive gates of Karst Watch finally groaned open. A figure emerged, tall and imposing, draped in thick, dark furs, his face etched with the weariness of too many winters. This was the Watchmaster, Warden Vuldin. His gaze, sharp as a winter wind, swept over the dead beast, then over the disheveled survivors. It lingered on Elian, still trembling, then settled on Kavira, a cold, appraising stare. “Recruits,” his voice boomed, echoing off the stone walls. “The Karst Watch accepts no weakness. You have seen what awaits you.” His eyes, however, fixed on Kavira. “You, ‘Kavir’. Your methods are… unorthodox. But effective.” Kavira simply inclined her head, awaiting the next order. She could feel Garek’s glare burning holes in her back, but she ignored it. He was a complication she would navigate, a resource to potentially exploit. Nothing more. “The first step into the Watch,” Warden Vuldin continued, his voice devoid of warmth, “is inspection. Strip down. Now.”

The Glass Cough