They made camp in a shallow hollow, the trees bending close overhead as if to hide them from the sky. No fire at first—Brennar said goblins smelled smoke like wolves smelled blood—but after the meat was stripped and the packs laid down, Ari allowed a small one, banked low, no higher than Rowan's knee.
Rowan sat with the harpoon across his lap, waterskin beside him. He couldn't stop staring at the iron prongs. His body still hummed from the ogre fight, every heartbeat reminding him of the moment frost had locked that giant leg solid. For three seconds, something bigger than a house had been helpless.
Three seconds.
Nyx sat across the fire, sharpening her shadow-thin blades. She hadn't spoken much since morning, only given him that one, quiet nod when he'd frozen the ogre.
Rowan cleared his throat. "Teach me more."
Nyx's gaze lifted slowly. "More what?"
"This." He tapped the harpoon. "What you said. Form, not force. I can make the blade now, but…" His hand tightened. "It can be more, right?"
Nyx studied him for a moment, then flicked her knife into its sheath. "Water has no limits. Only you do." She tipped her chin. "Try."
Rowan uncorked the waterskin. He poured a trickle along the prongs, breathed steady, and the frost edge crept across, forming the sword-like blade. One minute. He could feel the timer already ticking in his chest.
"Good," Nyx said. "Now change it."
Rowan blinked. "Change?"
"Not an edge. A point. A shard. What you shape depends on what you need."
He tried. The frost flickered, cracked, and broke apart. He tried again, pushing harder. The water scattered as droplets, freezing into useless beads.
Brennar chuckled from his bedroll. "Careful, boy, you'll ice your own nose shut."
Ari smirked faintly. "Maybe that would keep him quiet for once."
Rowan flushed, but Lyra leaned closer, her voice quiet. "Steady your breath. Don't force it. Water listens when you do."
Rowan swallowed, tried again. This time slower, calmer. The water gathered in his palm, shivering, then froze into a rough shard, jagged like broken glass. He held it only seconds before it cracked and melted, but it was real.
Nyx gave one small nod. "Crude. But useful. Do it again."
Rowan tried until his fingertips ached with cold. The shards never lasted long, some shattering the instant he formed them, others slipping through his grip like brittle leaves. But for each failure, there was one that held a little longer, a little truer.
When the fire burned down to embers, he finally leaned back, chest rising and falling hard. For the first time, he believed he was learning—not just swinging a weapon, but shaping it into something his own.
---
The first horn shattered the quiet.
It was thin and reedy, high in the trees. A second answered it to the left. Then a third, closer.
Everyone froze.
Ari's bow was already in her hands. "Scouts."
Brennar rose with a grunt, swinging his axe into his grip. "Not scouts anymore."
Eyes glimmered in the dark beyond the hollow. Dozens. Low, crouched, moving fast. The fire made them shine yellow, green, and white.
"Goblins," Nyx said, her blades whispering free. "Too many."
They came all at once, spilling down the slope with shrieks that split the night.
---
Rowan staggered to his feet, harpoon ready. The frost edge was already on the prongs, his knuckles white. A goblin lunged first, small but vicious, a crooked knife flashing. Rowan thrust. The blade bit its chest—frost exploded across its ribs, freezing it stiff mid-snarl. Three seconds later it toppled, glassy eyes staring blank.
Rowan recoiled, stomach twisting. He didn't have time to feel it. Another goblin leapt from the side. He swung wide, clipped its arm, and frost spread just enough to slow it. Brennar's axe followed, splitting it in two.
The hollow became chaos. Goblins poured in, dozens of them, their stink thick and acrid like rot and oil. Their armour was nothing more than bent plates, their weapons rusted, but their speed made them deadly.
Ari's arrows hissed, each one finding a throat. Nyx flickered in and out of shadow, blades slipping into gaps between plates. Brennar laughed as his axe crunched through bone, but even he grunted when a blade nicked his arm. Lyra was there instantly, dragging him back long enough to seal the cut with a soft glow of warmth before shoving him forward again.
Rowan fought to keep pace. His harpoon struck again and again, each hit slowing or freezing a goblin long enough for someone else to strike. But for every one that fell, two more darted in.
One blade nicked Rowan's thigh. He yelped, stumbling. A goblin hissed, raising its knife to finish him. Lyra's hand yanked him back at the last instant. Ari's arrow struck the goblin through the eye a heartbeat later. Rowan's breath came fast and sharp, fear spiking—but he forced his feet steady. He couldn't falter now.
His waterskin sloshed at his hip. He yanked it free, poured water into his palm, and thought of Nyx's words: form, not force. He shaped hard, sharp, desperate. A jagged shard of ice formed, short as a dagger.
"Go," he hissed, and hurled it.
The shard spun crooked through the dark. It struck the ground between two goblins and shattered. Cold burst outward in a pale mist. Both goblins shrieked, their legs frosting white, frozen mid-step.
Rowan's eyes widened. "It worked."
Three seconds later they broke free, only to fall under Brennar's axe and Nyx's shadow-blade.
Rowan tried again. Another shard, another desperate throw. This one burst against a shield, spraying frost across three of them. They slowed, teeth chattering, giving Ari time to drop two before they reached the line.
It was messy, clumsy—but it bought space.
---
The biggest goblin came last. Taller than the rest, scarred, its cleaver jagged and heavy. It roared and barreled straight for Rowan.
Rowan's heart stuttered. He raised the harpoon, frost edge gleaming. The cleaver came down—Rowan sidestepped and drove the blade into its arm.
Ice shot up the limb, locking it solid. The goblin froze mid-swing, snarling, body rigid.
"Now!" Rowan shouted.
Brennar's axe fell. The brute's head rolled into the dirt.
The rest broke. The goblins scattered into the trees, horns shrieking once, then fading.
---
Silence crept back in, broken only by Rowan's ragged breaths. The frost edge melted from his harpoon, dripping into the mud. His hands ached, fingertips raw with cold.
The ground was littered with goblin bodies. Ari bent to collect arrows, her face unreadable. Brennar prodded one blade with his boot. "Check the edges," he muttered. "Some are poisoned. Filthy trick."
Nyx crouched, wiping her blades on the grass. "Three seconds," she said flatly. "That's all you bought. But three seconds can mean everything."
Rowan lowered himself onto a stone, still trembling. His palm throbbed from shaping the shards. His thigh burned where the blade had grazed him. But beneath the pain, something else stirred—pride.
Lyra came to him, pressing her hand to his leg. Warmth spread, the sting easing. She gave him a small smile. "You did well."
Brennar dropped onto a log with a grunt, sweat still streaking his brow. "You're learning, boy. Faster than I expected. But don't let it swell your head. Overconfidence kills quicker than steel."
Rowan nodded, gripping the harpoon tighter. He knew Brennar was right. Tonight had shown him both the strength in his power and the risk of relying on it.
He glanced at Nyx. She was already sheathing her blades, shadows licking the edges. She caught his look and gave a single, faint nod. "Crude. But useful. Next time, sharper."
Rowan looked down at his hands, still raw with cold. For the first time, he felt like he wasn't just surviving the night. He was beginning to shape it.