Tower of thorns Tower of Fangs Volume 5 Chapter 6 The Wolf of the North

 

Chapter 6  The Wolf of the North

In Present day Northern Elyria

Winter ruled the North. The snow never truly melted. Even during the warmest months, frost lingered beneath stones and shadows. Ancient glaciers watched from distant mountains like sleeping giants while endless pine forests stretched beyond the horizon. This was the homeland of the Northmen. A land where survival itself was victory. And in this land a legend had begun. Not a king. Not a god. Not a hero. A young warrior. A blond-haired hunter wearing the skin of a monster. The Wolf of the North.

The stories started small. As all stories did. A trapper claimed he saw a giant white wolf killed by a lone warrior. A wandering merchant swore he encountered a young man carrying an axe larger than himself through a blizzard. A hunter reported seeing a warrior walking beside wolves rather than being hunted by them. Nobody believed them. At first. Then the stories multiplied. Village after village. Tribe after tribe. The same description appeared. Blond hair. Blue eyes. White wolfskin cloak. A gigantic axe. And always the same name. Toivo.

Toivo hated the attention. Which only made the stories grow faster. The Northmen loved legends. Especially reluctant ones. Gret found the entire situation hilarious.

"You should hear what they're saying now."

Toivo groaned. They sat beside a campfire deep within the northern forests. Several Northmen warriors rested nearby. The older warriors openly listened. Trying not to smile. Gret failed entirely.

"They say you killed the Frostfang Alpha with your bare hands."

Toivo stared.

"No they don't."

"They absolutely do."

"I used an axe."

"Facts have never stopped a good story."

Several warriors laughed. Toivo rubbed his forehead. The Wolfskin Cloak rested around his shoulders. The massive white pelt shifted in the firelight. The Alpha's fangs hung around his neck. The cloak had become part of him now. A second skin. A symbol. People recognized him immediately. He disliked that. The Northmen loved it. 

Months passed. Winter deepened. Toivo trained constantly. Every day. Every hour. Every moment. The pain inside him never disappeared. Moon remained absent. Yet somehow that absence followed him everywhere. The northern winds reminded him. Moonlight reminded him. The stars reminded him. Even silence reminded him. Especially silence. Some nights Toivo still woke expecting to see a silver palanquin drifting overhead. A glimpse of white robes. Long black hair. Jet-black eyes. Those impossible eyes. Eyes darker than midnight. Eyes that occasionally turned silver. Eyes that always made his heart race. Every morning he remembered reality. Moon was gone. Far away. And Toivo hated how much it still hurt.

One evening Gret found him sitting alone beside a frozen lake. The older warrior quietly sat beside him. Neither spoke for several minutes.

Finally Gret sighed.

"You miss him."

Toivo laughed bitterly.

"That obvious?"

"To everyone except you."

The younger man looked toward the distant horizon.

Snow drifted across the ice.

"I thought it would get easier."

Gret nodded.

"It doesn't."

Toivo looked surprised.

The older warrior smiled faintly.

"People leave."

The words carried experience.

Loss.

History.

"I know."

"No."

Gret shook his head.

"You understand it."

His blue eyes settled on Toivo.

"But you haven't accepted it."

Silence followed.

The younger man stared at the frozen lake.

After a long while he finally spoke.

"I keep thinking about him."

Gret snorted.

"Of course you do."

"Every day."

"I know."

"I can't stop."

The older warrior laughed.

"That too."

Toivo looked annoyed.

Gret simply smiled.

"You're young."

The younger man rolled his eyes.

"Everyone keeps saying that."

"Because it's true."

Gret leaned back.

"You think this pain makes you special?"

Toivo frowned.

"It doesn't?"

"No."

The older warrior looked toward the stars.

"It makes you human."

That answer lingered. Long after the conversation ended.

As winter deepened the legend grew. Toivo defeated raiders. Bandits. Monsters. Beasts. None of it felt important. Not compared to the battles he fought inside himself. Still the Northmen watched. And remembered. They saw a young warrior who never retreated. A young warrior who defended villages without asking for reward. A young warrior who fought impossible odds without hesitation. Most importantly they saw a young warrior who never abandoned anyone. No matter the danger. No matter the cost. The Northmen respected strength. But they admired loyalty. Toivo possessed both.

The turning point came during the Blizzard of Black Pines. And someday years later, old men would still lower their voices when speaking of it. Not because of Toivo. Because of the storm. The storm came from the northern mountains without warning. One morning the sky was merely gray. By nightfall the world had disappeared. Winter descended like an invading army. The wind arrived first. A screaming thing. A living thing. It tore through forests with the fury of a wounded god. Ancient pines bent until they cracked. Entire trees vanished beneath walls of white. The Northmen had names for ordinary snowstorms. This was not one of them. This was a white death. A sky-burial. A storm that erased the difference between earth and heaven.

Snow did not simply fall. it felt alive and on a rampage, It attacked. It struck faces like knives. It buried roads in minutes. It filled lungs with ice. The cold became something physical. A predator. A patient hunter. The sort that never needed to chase. Because eventually every victim grew tired. Entire villages disappeared beneath drifts taller than houses. Roofs collapsed. Barns vanished. Smoke no longer rose from chimneys. Hunters failed to return. Travelers froze where they stood. Families waited for loved ones who would never come home. The storm swallowed them all. The Northmen knew better than to challenge such weather. Every child born in the North learned the same lesson: You can fight wolves. You can fight bears. You can even fight men. But you never fight winter. Winter always wins. So the longhouses closed their doors. Families gathered around hearth fires. Warriors remained indoors. Even the bravest Northmen stayed beneath their roofs and prayed the storm would pass. Except one. Toivo. When the first reports arrived, he listened quietly. A hunting party missing. A merchant caravan overdue. Families trapped beyond Black Pine Valley. Children lost somewhere in the forests. The room fell silent. Everyone understood what that meant. They were already dead. The blizzard had claimed them. No one said it aloud. No one needed to. Toivo stood. The warriors watched. Some already knew what he intended.

"Sit down."

The command came from an elder.

Toivo ignored it.

"The storm will kill you."

He continued gathering his gear.

"You'll never find them."

The Wolf of the North lifted his axe. The enormous weapon settled across his shoulder. His Wolfskin Cloak draped behind him like a living mantle of white fur. Blue eyes met theirs. Calm. Steady and Certain.

"If they're alive," he said quietly, "someone has to try."

No one stopped him.

Because they already knew it would be pointless. And because they knew he would go anyway. The door opened. The storm immediately lunged inside. Snow exploded through the longhouse. The fire dimmed. The wind howled. For a brief moment it felt as though winter itself had entered the room. Then Toivo stepped into the white abyss.And vanished.

For three days he searched. Three endless days. Three nights without sleep. Without shelter. Without warmth. Without certainty. The blizzard became his entire world. There was no sky. No ground nor horizon. Only white. Endless white. The sort of white that swallowed direction. Swallowed sound. Swallowed thought. The sort of white that made men walk in circles until they died. Even Toivo lost his bearings more than once. The storm whispered lies. Every blizzard did.The Northmen knew this. The wind spoke with familiar voices. Dead voices. Lost voices. Loved ones calling from beyond the snow. Hunters followed those voices and vanished. Travelers chased those voices and froze. Toivo heard them too. His mother. His father. Old friends. Even Moon. Sometimes the wind sounded exactly like Moon. Soft. Gentle. Calling his name. Every time it happened, Toivo clenched his jaw harder. And kept walking. Because he knew the storm lied. The storm always lied.

The cold became worse. Far worse. People from warmer lands imagined winter as discomfort. The Northmen knew the truth. Extreme cold was not discomfort. It was a thief. First it stole feeling. Then judgment. Then memory. Finally life. Toivo watched his own breath freeze inside his beard. Ice formed across his eyelashes. Blood froze inside cuts along his hands. More than once he found himself stumbling. More than once he nearly collapsed. Each time he forced himself onward. Because somewhere ahead people were waiting. People who still believed rescue might come. And somehow he found them. A child trapped inside a collapsed cabin. A hunter buried beneath snow. A family sheltering beneath fallen pines. A merchant caravan trapped inside an ice-choked ravine. One by one. Again and again. Toivo found them. And every time he did, the storm seemed to grow angrier. As though winter itself resented having its victims stolen away. The wind screamed louder. The snow fell harder. The darkness deepened. But the Wolf of the North kept moving. 

By the third day he could barely stand. His body ached. His hands bled. His muscles trembled. His vision blurred. The storm had stripped away everything except determination. And still he walked. Still searched. Still refused to leave anyone behind. When he finally emerged from the blizzard the village thought they were seeing a ghost. The storm parted just enough to reveal figures moving through the snow. One. Then three. Then ten. Then more. Twenty-seven survivors followed behind him. Children. Hunters. Families. People already mourned. People already buried in memory. People everyone believed dead. Toivo walked at the front. Or perhaps staggered. The distinction hardly mattered. His face was pale with exhaustion. Ice coated his hair. Blood stained his gloves. The Wolfskin Cloak snapped violently behind him like a battle banner caught in a storm. Yet despite everything he still carried a child on his shoulders. The little girl slept against his neck. Safe. Alive. The sight silenced the entire village. No cheers. No celebrations. Only stunned silence. Because everyone understood what they were witnessing. Not strength nor glory. Not legend but Character. The kind of character that could not be taught. The kind that could not be forged. The kind that revealed itself only when the world became cruel enough. And from that day onward, the North never forgot. Not the blizzard. Not the survivors. And certainly not the young warrior who walked into winter itself and returned carrying lives the storm had already claimed.

One snowy evening an old skald finally approached himThe ancient storyteller studied Toivo for several moments.

Then smiled.

"You know what your problem is?"

Toivo sighed.

"Apparently I have many."

The old man laughed.

"True."

Then his expression softened.

"You still think you're becoming strong for someone else."

Toivo froze.

The words hit harder than any weapon.

The skald continued.

"You aren't."

Snow drifted around them.

The old storyteller pointed toward the northern wilderness.

"The man who crossed blizzards."

"The man who killed Frostfang."

"The man who saved twenty-seven souls."

His eyes narrowed.

"That wasn't done for Moon."

Toivo stared.

The old man smiled gently.

"That was done because it's who you are."

For the first time

Toivo didn't know how to answer.

Far above the North. Far beyond the clouds. A silver palanquin drifted through moonlit skies. Thousands of glowing fairies pulled silk cords through the heavens. Moon sat quietly inside. Kev slept nearby in cat form. The celestial gazed toward the distant horizon. Toward the frozen North. His jet-black eyes briefly turned silver. A faint smile touched his lips. Small. Almost invisible. Yet warm. Because even from this distance he could still hear the stories. The Wolf of the North. And Moon found himself quietly proud.

Far below Toivo stood upon a snowy cliff overlooking the endless wilderness. The Wolfskin Cloak billowed behind him. The Angel's Egg rested against his chest. The northern wind howled around him. For the first time since the farewell the pain hurt slightly less. Not because he had forgotten. Never that. But because he had finally begun moving forward. One step at a time. One battle at a time. One day at a time. The Wolf of the North lifted his gaze toward the distant stars. And somewhere beyond those stars his heart still followed the Moon.