Roric moved through the Cinder Wastes, each step crunching ash-ice. His Pyro-Angler cloak flared a dim orange, a fragile warmth against the gnawing cold. Around him, the ground rippled. Armored Frostling Skitters boiled from the frozen earth, chitinous legs clicking. One of the creatures, a large Frostling soldier, lunged. Its multi-jointed maw snapped. Roric twisted, but not fast enough. Jagged mandibles tore into his forearm. A primal roar tore from Roric’s throat, a sound lost to the biting wind. He ripped his arm free. A deep gash bled dark, sluggish ichor onto the rime-crusted ash. Bone gleamed beneath torn flesh. If not for the toughening effects of the Pyro-Angler’s meat and gallbladder, his limb might have been severed. He pressed a gloved hand to the wound. Freezing air stung, but no time for meticulous care. He needed to move. He needed to fight. Roric conjured Shardbolts, crystalline projectiles that hissed through the air. They shattered Skitter carapaces, exploding heads in bursts of black ichor and fragmented ice. Still, they came. Dozens became hundreds. Hundreds became a relentless tide. His standard approach, honed through countless skirmishes, was failing. He moved with Rime Rush, a blur of cold motion, dodging snapping jaws. But their numbers were too vast. For every Skitter he froze, two more surged from the earth. They encircled him, a living, chittering wall. A dull ache began in Roric’s core, the wellspring of his ice power. Essence was draining too fast. His icy grip on the world around him wavered, just slightly. Fyodor watched from a nearby ash-ridge, his silhouette sharp against the grey sky. Not a word. Not a gesture. Just cold, calculating observation. Roric knew Fyodor wouldn’t intervene. This was a test, a crucible. He needed something faster, more potent than the individual Shardbolts. Something that consumed less vital essence per enemy destroyed. Roric’s mind raced, a desperate scramble for innovation. Imagination felt like a luxury in this maelstrom, but survival demanded it. His domain was ice. He didn’t need to condense air to propel his projectiles. He could just… move the ice itself. Shape it directly. A primitive, potent idea bloomed in his mind. Not a focused shard, but a blunt, crushing force. A mass of ice, hurled by pure will. His essence reservoir was dangerously low. This was a gamble. Perhaps a one percent chance. He’d take it. Roric closed his eyes for a heartbeat, even as a Skitter clawed at his leg. He poured every last drop of his remaining Frost-core essence into the air around him. Ambient temperature plummeted. Ice crystals swirled. Frigid air thickened. Dozens of ice masses, each the size of a human forearm, coalesced from nothingness. Glacier Missiles. Blunt, dense, and humming with raw, compressed cold. Roric roared, a silent command echoing only in his mind. The Glacier Missiles launched. *Swoosh! Swoosh! CRACK!* They slammed into the Skitter swarm. Chitin exploded. Legs buckled. Bodies burst into frozen fragments. Holes the size of human chests appeared in the creatures, revealing shattered organs. Onslaught was devastating. Skitters shrieked, a sound like scraping stone, then fell silent. The immediate vicinity became a graveyard of fragmented frost and black ichor. Not a single Skitter remained standing. Roric staggered. His vision blurred. He fell to one knee, then collapsed entirely onto the ash-ice, lungs heaving. Every muscle screamed. His Frost-core was utterly depleted, a hollow ache. He had nothing left. Not a flicker of strength in his fingers. --- A soft scrabbling sound broke the silence. Beneath the ash, the ground shifted. Roric forced his eyes open. Despair flickered in their depths. From the churned earth, a creature several times larger than any he’d faced, began to emerge. Its shell, a dark, almost titanium-like sheen, bore a faint, pulsating reddish hue. It was not merely larger; it radiated an ancient, predatory cold that eclipsed even Roric’s own. Its identity slammed into his exhausted mind. *The Queen.* As if summoned by her presence, more Skitters surfaced around her. These were larger than the average Frostlings, twice the size, their mandibles thick and gleaming. Glacial Hulks. Soldier Skitters. For every Matron, there were typically twenty Hulks. Fewer in number than the swarm Roric had just annihilated, but their threat level was exponentially higher. The Rime Matron, the Queen of the Frostlings, fixed her mineral-like eyes on Roric. A raw, ancient rage emanated from her. Her fury, he realized, must be immense to lure her from the depths of her lair, a rare breach of their cold, subterranean existence. Though rated as a Rime-rank creature, her ferocity elevated her to a Glacier-rank threat. A piercing screech ripped from the Matron’s maw. Glacial Hulks advanced. Fyodor remained still, a shadow on the ridge. That old bastard. A dog, indeed, Roric thought, his mind surprisingly clear despite the exhaustion. One Glacial Hulk lunged, its massive jaws clamping onto Roric’s waist. Excruciating pain shot through him. His body seized, a rigid block of agony, but his mind refused to surrender. The Rime Matron began to dig into the ash-ice, melting and tunneling with surprising speed. Her soldier Hulks followed, the one gripping Roric dragging him along. Pressure built around him, freezing earth pressing against his body, threatening to crush him. Suddenly, the pressure vanished. Roric fell, tumbling into a vast cavern. They were deep within the Skitters’ Lair, the Rime-nest. Walls of hardened, saliva-cemented ice-sand rose around him, forming a labyrinthine complex. Even a seasoned Pathfinder would lose direction here. Matron and her Hulks moved with chilling familiarity, leading Roric deeper, through winding tunnels and echoing chambers. They arrived at the Hatchery Cavern. Thousands of larvae, pale and transparent-shelled, pulsed and twitched on the walls and floor. Countless eggs, like frozen pearls, lay scattered amongst the skeletal remains of past meals. A sickeningly sweet, metallic smell hung heavy in the frigid air. Matron stood at the center, emitting a series of eerie, low clicks. In response, a fresh wave of larvae, smaller than the ones Roric had encountered outside, detached from the walls. They scuttled towards him. The Glacial Hulk finally released its grip. Roric fell, a dead weight. Paralyzing cold from the Skitter’s bite began to spread. His fingers twitched, then stilled. He couldn't move. Not a muscle. Larvae swarmed him. Their antennae waved, an eager, horrifying dance. They tore at his Pyro-Angler cloak, their tiny mandibles biting into his skin. Sharp, searing pain. He couldn’t scream. His eyes widened, fixed on the translucent bodies, the frantic gnawing. Eaten alive. This was it. The silent horror of his demise. A silent roar tore through Roric’s consciousness. Not an audible sound, but a raw, desperate surge of will. A shimmer of deep orange flared from the two lines on his wrist, the rank insignia. A third line materialized, sharp and vibrant. Frost-rank. The paralysis broke. Searing cold receded. A rush of pure, raw essence flooded his core. He was whole again, more than whole. Amplified. Roric let out a guttural cry, a sound of fury and renewed power. Glacier Missiles erupted from his body. Not dozens, but hundreds. They flooded the Hatchery Cavern, a devastating barrage of hardened ice. Matron wailed, a shrill, outraged sound. Roric ignored her. Missiles tore through the larvae. They burst like fragile bubbles, spraying the cavern walls with frozen viscera. Glacial Hulks charged, roaring with chitinous fury. Roric met them with another volley. Missiles impacted with bone-shattering force. Legs exploded. Heads burst. Hulks crumpled, broken and dead. The vast difference between Chill-rank and Frost-rank was staggering. Now, only the Rime Matron remained. Roric unleashed his amplified Glacier Missiles at the Queen. They slammed into her obsidian-like shell, but she barely flinched. Ice shattered on impact, leaving only faint scratches. Her shell, Roric realized, was not only impossibly thick but also imbued with an aura barrier, a defensive resonance that shrugged off his attacks. Enraged by the slaughter of her progeny, the Rime Matron let out a high-frequency shriek. Sound vibrated through the cavern walls, amplifying, a crushing wave of pure sonic ice. Roric screamed, collapsing to his knees. Blood streamed from his ears, hot against his frozen cheeks. His eardrums ruptured. His brain felt like it was rattling in his skull. Concussion. Matron possessed a true boss-level skill. Her forms blurred, overlapping in his damaged vision. Queen approached, her antennae twitching, a triumphant sway. *Yes, you won. You goddamn monster.* Roric’s hand, with supreme effort, rose. His middle finger, defiant, pointed at the approaching horror. Rime Matron plunged her teeth, ready to strike the killing blow. Roric shut his eyes, awaiting the end. --- A sudden, powerful gust of wind, impossibly cold, ripped through the cavern. Rime Matron’s head, intact, flew through the air, separating cleanly from her body. It struck a distant wall with a wet thud. Roric was drenched in the gush of bodily fluids that erupted from the Queen’s headless torso. He opened his eyes, staring at the surreal sight. “Come to your senses, you idiot! How long are you going to stay dazed?” Fyodor’s familiar, gravelly voice echoed through the cavern. He stood over Roric, a faint reddish glow from his own cloak illuminating the scene. He had severed the Queen’s head, saving Roric in the last second. Fyodor glanced at the carnage—the pulverized larvae, the shattered Glacial Hulks. “Still,” he grumbled, a hint of grudging approval in his tone, “not entirely useless.” Roric had faced death, innovated, and ascended. Few Awakened could stand against a Rime Matron, especially one with such a potent aura. Roric’s stubborn refusal to yield had pushed him beyond his limits. Through the tunnels, distant cries of more Frostling Skitters echoed. They knew. They were coming for their dead Queen. Fyodor let out a harsh, barking laugh, his eyes glinting with a savage madness. “Get up! Don’t just sit there waiting to die! Your enemies are still around.” “Get up! Even if you’re going to fall, fall fighting!” Roric gritted his teeth. He wouldn't look weak in front of this old bastard. *You damn old man.* He pushed himself up, every muscle screaming in protest, blood still seeping from his ears. Tunnels filled with the chittering tide of charging Frostling Skitters. Roric screamed, a primal sound of defiance and exhaustion. He unleashed his Glacier Missiles, a storm of devastating ice, into the approaching darkness. No bystanders remained in the Rime-nest. Only the endless Skitters, a human form embodying the cold, and a madman, unleashed, devoid of reason, fighting until his last breath.

Glacier's Edge