Chapter 46

  The Ice Mountain was… colossal. As we rounded the final corner of the main street, the building rose before us as if it had emerged from the ground itself to declare its dominance over the city. Not just an inn, but a fortress, a monument. Five stories tall, with a layout more reminiscent of an arena than a guesthouse, it towered into the snowy sky like an ancient mountain made of stone and magic. The exterior walls were crafted from smooth, dark obsidian, veined with glowing blue lines—not decoration, but likely some form of magical conduit, the kind I’d last seen in Calden. Everything there had been monumental, almost exaggerated, yet even Calden might have paused at the sight of this.

  A heavy roof of dark metal arched over the structure, thick layers of ice formed on it like they were part of the architecture itself. Massive pillars etched with runes supported not only the entrance canopy but also a web of glowing torches stretching like an enormous spiderweb between the upper floors. At its center flickered a bright blue-white flame, casting a mirrored shimmer across the courtyard below.

  In front of the entrance lay a wide, crescent-shaped staircase, its steps made of frost-white marble. On either side stood statues—not lions or griffons like those found in southern cities, but figures of ice and steel: a giant, an orc, a dark elf, a human warrior woman, and a lizard priestess. All gazed forward with dignity, as if to say: You are welcome here—so long as you don’t greet us with steel first.

  Despite the immense size, above the door hung only a small, almost absurdly modest sign of dark wood. Carved in fine, careful lettering, it read:

  "Ice Mountain – A Home for All"

  Maira took a step closer. “Are we in the right place?” she asked in a hushed voice, full of reverence.

  I nodded, unable to take my eyes off the fa?ade. This wasn’t just some lodging—this was a dream carved in stone.

  “A home for all...” I murmured, staring at the door. The phrase was na?ve. Beautiful. But dangerous. In a world where origin, magic, and faith could decide life or death, this slogan was either madness—or unshakable belief in an idea. An idea too beautiful to ever truly be.

  My gaze drifted to my sword. The grip was wrapped in dark leather, but the symbol of the Eagle Order was clearly visible: a winged eagle with the flame-seal. In some cities, that mark granted access to the top floor of the palace. In others... it was a death sentence. Here? Who knew.

  “I need to cover the symbol,” I muttered more to myself than anyone else. “Otherwise people might think I’m here to conduct a purge.”

  Maira didn’t reply, but I felt her eyes on me. She was likely thinking the same thing I was—about what this Order and the Inquisition had brought into the world. What I had allowed. What I had been a part of.

  I recalled a thought that had lingered in my mind for days now: having the emblem removed from the grip. A local smith could file it off, or cover it with silver. But the very idea made me shiver—and not because of the cold. If I did that, I’d be laying down my oath. And even if I had broken it—many times—I couldn’t fully let go. Not yet.

  I looked at the blade. The truth was: I still needed it. And not because of the steel.

  Another thought crept in. Uncomfortable, but necessary.

  “Gravor,” I said silently in my mind. “Can you coat the blade with your black essence? Nothing permanent, just surface-level. A thin layer to hide the symbol.”

  The demon inside me paused—as he always did since the incident with Simon, whenever he was weighing whether I deserved a favor.

  Then his voice came, soft and smug:

  “I am honored, oh bearer of my prison.”

  A dark, almost oily shimmer crept over the weapon. It began at the crossguard, slowly spreading along the blade like fine mist turning into thin, black tendrils, until the emblem vanished beneath a matte, organic-looking layer. The blade itself remained untouched—still sharp, still deadly—but its face had changed. Unremarkable. Menacing in a different way.

  I slid the sword back into its scabbard, checked the fit, then turned to Vin and Maira.

  “Ready?” I asked.

  Vin gave a short nod and pulled her hood slightly deeper over her face.

  Together, we climbed the steps, past the guardian statues.

  Then the great door opened—and we stepped inside.

  In terms of smell, it was actually better than the Wolve Howler—though only in a very relative sense. Here, it didn’t reek of burnt oil, smoky leather, and old blood, but of something one might politely call “life”: frying fat and sweat, stale beer and wet stone, a hint of pipeweed, and somewhere in the distance even roasted meat—all blending into a dense, warm cloud that clung to you like a damp cloak the moment you entered. Not a pleasant scent, but at least nothing that made your stomach turn. It was... everyday life. Reality.

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  The taproom was enormous—larger than anything I’d ever seen in an inn. At least thirty meters long and fifteen wide, with a vaulted ceiling of dark wood blackened by soot. Massive columns of frozen stone lined the sides, reinforced with bronze bands to prevent cracking. Two fireplaces, large enough to stand in, cast flickering light across the gathered crowd. Between them, evenly spaced, torches in wrought iron sconces lined the walls, their light reflecting faintly off the stone tiles. No shine—just warmth. An invitation.

  And the place was packed. Not just “busy,” but so crowded you had to weave through conversations and chairs like navigating an obstacle course. I guessed easily over a hundred people—at least. A vibrant mix of species, professions, and stories. There were tall orcs in chain vests debating with slender elves, while a troll at the window lost a wooden game to a giggling goblin. A group of dark elves with gleaming eyes and long black braids were deep in an intense discussion about winemaking, while a half-naked human—his body more scar than skin—tried to impress a dwarven woman who was clearly more interested in her roast than in his stories.

  Beastkin with braided fur, one of them even sporting a metallic arm, stood by the fireplace warming themselves alongside two dragonborn whose glowing scales shimmered gently in the firelight. At one of the tables, a satyress laughed so loudly that three tables over, everyone briefly went silent—then the noise resumed as if nothing had happened.

  The staff darted between them—surprisingly nimble given the crowd. A lizardwoman in an apron balanced five full tankards on her tail, while a bearded halfling with a tray deftly avoided a swaying ogre who was piling meat from the buffet. Two young tieflings in knee-length robes were sweeping up shards of broken clay while arguing loudly about the best brewing recipe.

  And yet, none of it felt chaotic. It was like a well-rehearsed play—just with an improvised script. The Ice Mountain wasn’t just an inn. It was a world of its own. It was... too good to be true.

  The three of us walked side by side through the crowd, not overly cautious but not arrogant either. We were noticed, no doubt—especially because of my armor. But the few glances it drew weren’t hostile. Curious, maybe respectful. Not suspicious.

  A few guests whistled quietly when they noticed the pitch-black sword on my back, still coated in Gravor’s essence. Some eyed it with fascination—one even whispered, “Looks like the blade from the legend of Durn-Thraal...” Obviously wrong. But the impression mattered.

  Despite the heavy metal plates, the helmet at my side, and the war boots, I was for most people here nothing more than another fighter looking for coin or glory. Maybe a gladiator, a monster hunter, a warrior from some distant province. No symbol gave away my past—nothing revealed the order I had once served.

  And that was a good thing.

  For a moment... I even felt welcome.

  “What can I offer you?” asked the barkeep in a calm, rasping voice—a voice like a low, rumbling gust of wind blowing across burning slagfields, as we approached the bar. It wasn’t unpleasant, just… unusual. Fitting, really, for his appearance.

  He was unmistakably an Ashblood.

  His form was humanoid—two arms, two legs, standing upright with a certain elegant posture—but his skin looked as if someone had mixed dusty, scorched earth with gray-brown clay and laid it over glowing embers. Fine, crack-like lines ran across his body, and from some of them glimmered a faint red light, like slowly cooling magma. His eyes—oh, those eyes—were deep, black hollows with two ruby-red embers flickering inside, like living coals. No whites, no pupils, just pure, burning presence. His hands looked bony, yet strong—with black nails that resembled molten obsidian shards more than anything natural.

  I froze in place. My heart beat faster—not out of fear, but something else. Shock? Some ancient conditioning?

  “How… how is this possible!?” I blurted out—loud enough that the nearby table took notice.

  He didn’t blink—I wasn’t even sure he was capable of blinking. Yet his response was surprisingly calm. With a slow, reassuring motion of his hand, he said:

  “No worries. I get that question every day.”

  Vin and Maira didn’t sit down right away. They stood frozen just like I was, staring at the Ashblood as if he were a creature from ancient legend that had accidentally stumbled into reality. Which... wasn’t far from the truth.

  My thoughts were racing. I remembered the first time I’d seen Maira in the White Ox. That feeling of distrust, the stirrings of my old upbringing, that instinctive reflex:

  “Impure. A threat. A test. Cleanse.”

  As stupid as it sounds—when you’ve spent years in a dogmatic brotherhood that brands every deviation from the norm as sin... your thinking gets warped. Reflexes become like muscles: used often, hard to unlearn. The Inquisition preached that demons, hybrids, the undead, the cursed—and Ashbloods—were corruptions. That they were the source of all chaos.

  And now here one was—right in front of me—serving drinks to dragonborn, elves, and ogres like it was the most normal thing in the world.

  It was... surreal.

  And at the same time—strangely beautiful.

  A rupture in everything I had been taught. A quiet triumph over the narrow-mindedness of my past.

  I looked at him. Really looked.

  He wore a dark, simple leather apron over a coarse shirt, singed at the shoulders—probably from the fireplace, or... from himself. Around his neck hung a plain metal amulet etched with old runes. His eyes rested on me—patient, not demanding. He was the picture of calm.

  “So once more,” he repeated, with the faintest hint of a smile—a slight curl at the corners of his broad mouth—“what can I offer you?”

  I was about to say something, but my stomach was faster.

  It growled. Loudly.

  Vin laughed. Maira gave a crooked smile. And I… I laughed too. For the first time in hours.

  “I’ll take… something hot. Maybe meat. And bread. And a mead, if you’ve got one,” I said, finally sitting down. I felt the tension leave my shoulders.

  “Coming right up,” said the Ashblood warmly. “The game’s from the southern slopes of the Iceback. Delivered fresh by a troll hunter you’d best not argue with.”

  He turned and began gathering plates, cups, and steaming ladles with practiced ease. The firelight reflected in the ember-red lines of his skin, while the steam from the food rose around him, making him look like a living legend.

  I leaned back.

  Not everything unfamiliar was wrong.

  And maybe… this was exactly the place where I could finally learn that.