Zivena’s words hung in the frigid air, thick with the stench of singed hound fur and tallow. The Keep’s forgotten tunnels stretched below, a promise of escape, a betrayal of everything Yulva had found. Her eyes, still wide with the echoes of Vorz, fixed on the looming figure of Gorben. He stood like a crag of ancient stone, his sightless gaze pointed in her general direction, his every breath a shallow rasp. Abandon him? Leave this sanctuary, this one place where she wasn’t prey, wasn’t a weapon, wasn’t ‘leashless dog’? She clamped her jaws together and shook her head, a slow, deliberate movement. No. Never. “The tunnels are our only way,” Zivena insisted, stepping closer, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Krezko isn’t just coming for you, Yulva. He’s coming for *your blood*. For the healing… for the antidote to his rotting sickness. He will flay you alive to get it. And Gorben…” She gestured to the giant, who leaned heavily on a crumbling pillar, his chest rattling. “He won’t last another siege. Not like this.” Yulva took a step back, then another, putting distance between herself and the lure of escape. Her hand found the rough fabric of Gorben’s sleeve. He stirred, his wide, scarred fingers closing gently over her forearm, a silent question in the pressure. He understood. He always understood. She looked at Zivena, her face pale but resolute. “He stays. I stay.” Zivena threw her hands up in exasperation. “Are you mad? This isn’t a choice, it’s a death sentence! You’ve seen what his hounds can do, what Krezko *wants* to do. There are thousands of his soldiers marching across the Glacial Spine right now. Thousands!” Gorben’s low rumble cut through the argument. “The old ways hold.” His voice was weaker than before, but the conviction in it was absolute. “The wards. They must be strengthened. The Keep has seen worse. We will hold.” “Strengthen them with what? Spit and curses?” Zivena retorted, but her gaze was already darting around the cavernous hall, assessing. “Fine. Your funeral. But if we’re doing this, we do it right. The wards around the outer courtyard. Those are the first to fall. Gorben, you’ll know where the ley lines thin.” Gorben nodded, a slow, grave motion. “Below the Eye of the Stone. The eastern gate, where the first frost giants tried to break through. And the pinnacle of the Watcher’s Spire.” He pushed himself away from the pillar, a groan escaping his lips as he straightened his immense frame. Each movement was labored, but he began to move, his bare feet surprisingly quiet on the flagstones. Yulva clung to his sleeve, her steps quickening to keep pace. They moved through the sprawling, silent halls, Zivena trailing behind them, a whirlwind of reluctant efficiency. The air grew colder as they approached the outer wall, the wind whistling through unseen cracks. When they reached the eastern gate, the frigid air blasted them, carrying the faint, metallic scent of iron plates and the acrid tang of scorched pitch. Gorben stopped before a moss-covered portal. “Here. The stone weeps for replenishment.” His calloused palm traced symbols chiseled into the granite, feeling for the subtle tremors of the weakened ward. Yulva watched, her mind racing. Krezko wanted her blood for its healing properties, for its ability to neutralize his plague. What if… what if it could do more than soothe? What if it could shatter? She looked at Gorben’s rotting arm, then to her own palm, where a small cut from her earlier frantic search had long since scabbed over. She bit down on it, hard, until iron flooded her tongue and crimson welled up across the skin. Gorben, sensing the change in the air, turned his head. “Yulva?” She pressed her bleeding palm against the cold, sweating stone of the lintel. A faint blue light flickered at the contact, then pulsed, slowly at first, then with increasing intensity. The stone hummed beneath her touch, absorbing the vital liquid. The air around them grew warmer, the blast of the outside wind momentarily muted. Zivena, who had been scouting the battlements, returned, her eyes wide with surprise. “What in the hell was that?” “My blood,” Yulva murmured, pulling her hand away, leaving a faint crimson smear on the stone. The blue light intensified, spreading like hairline fractures across the stonework, coalescing into a pale barrier. It was a shield, but something about it felt… sharper, more aggressive than the passive warmth Gorben’s curse had displayed when soothed. It felt like a trap. Before they could test the new ward’s strength, a guttural roar echoed from beyond the cliffs, followed by the clatter of a thousand armored boots. Krezko’s vanguard. A single timber-framed ram, dragged by horned dray-oxen, halted on the ridge, its iron head aimed squarely at Vihar Keep’s main gates. Behind it, lines of torches wound back along the ice. A voice, amplified by dark magic, boomed across the precipice, rattling the very stones of the Keep. “Yulva! My little leashless dog! You thought you could run? Thought you could hide in this crumbling pile of rock with your blind pet? Come out, girl! Return to your cage! Your master has need of your… *talents*!” The voice, distorted and mocking, burrowed deep into Yulva’s mind, replaying every cruel taunt from the Vorz arena, every sneering command. Her knuckles went white against the parapet stone, her breath catching behind clenched teeth. Gorben swayed, his entire being vibrating with fury. “Krezko…” he rasped, his hand finding Yulva’s shoulder, a grounding presence amidst the torment. “The wards will hold for a time,” Zivena said, her voice tight, her crossbow already raised toward the ravine. “But we need a plan. Something more than just waiting for them to break through.” Yulva looked at the glowing stone, at the dark smear of her blood, then at Gorben’s gray skin. Her blood had stemmed the rot eating his veins. It had consumed the foul essence rather than merely numbing the ache. It could dissolve the infection outright. The wind whipped sleet off the stones between Krezko's shouts. Yulva dug her nails into her palms and locked her knees. She stepped forward, towards the precipice, towards the voice of her tormentor. The words tasted foreign on her tongue, unused for so long, but when they came, they were clear, sharp, and laced with a terrifying promise. Her voice, small at first, then growing with each word, echoed across the freezing cliffs, cutting through the biting wind. “You call me a dog, Krezko?” She paused, letting the silence build, letting the distant army hear. “Then hear this. I am the one who bites!”

The Blight's Bargain