Rhyland materializes at my side, his strong arms snaking around my waist. He pulls me close, anchoring me against the relentless gusts that threaten to send me tumbling ass over teakettle into the nearest snowbank.
Here's hoping we don't wander off the edge of a cloud or something equally embarrassing. Nothing ruins a heroic quest like plummeting through the sky because you couldn't see where you were going.
After hours of walking in this frigid mess, mountainous silhouette looms out of nowhere, rising from the swirling snow like a giant. It's hard to gauge just how big this thing is, because its peak vanishes somewhere in the cotton-candy mess of clouds above. I'm guessing it's not your average skyscraper.
"There!" Rhyland's voice barely registers over the howling wind, but I catch enough to follow his pointing finger. "The Elemental Spire!"
Oh, good. I'm glad we're headed toward the ominous tower that could double as a supervillain's summer home. I was starting to worry this little adventure might be too easy.
Rhyland, ever attuned to my emotional state (or maybe just sensing my sarcasm), tries to reassure me. "It's okay. I've been in there before."
Well, that's comforting. I feel so much better knowing Rhyland has already braved the mysterious spire of doom. It's not like anything could have changed since his last visit, right? It's just an ancient, magical tower in a realm of literal gods and monsters. What could go wrong?
Erik, deciding that this conversation is beneath his tactical expertise, trudges ahead through the snow like a man on a mission. His silver head bowed against the wind, he forges up the hill with the determination of a soldier charging into battle—or a vampire who's really, really done with this arctic bullshit.
The structure grows larger with each slogging step, its peak vanishing into the swirling white abyss above. It's like Jack's beanstalk on steroids—a vertical monstrosity that probably has a killer view of the entire realm. You know, assuming you can reach the top without becoming a human popsicle.
Rhyland forges ahead with the determination of a man on a mission, his hand never leaving the small of my back as he guides me through the knee-deep snow. I can practically feel the waves of protective energy rolling off him, his inner caveman on high alert in this alien environment.
Guess we're off to see the wizard—or in this case, climb the magic spire and hope we don't die of frostbite before we reach the top.
By the time we finally reach the base of this architectural monstrosity, I feel like I've aged a decade. Every muscle in my body is screaming in protest, and I'm pretty sure my lungs are filing a formal complaint with the union. Erik's perfect posture has started to crack, his silver hair crusted with ice as he glowers at the endless snowfall like it personally offended his sensibilities—his expression replaced by one of pure, unadulterated "done-with-this-shit."
The entrance looms before us—a set of doors that would make Paul Bunyan feel inadequate. They stretch so high I have to crane my neck back just to see where they end. Their surface is carved with glowing runes that pulse with ancient power. The glyphs dance across the metal like ethereal fireflies, casting an otherworldly glow across the snow.
In all his Viking wisdom, Rhyland approaches the doors with his usual subtle diplomacy, which means he tries to muscle them open. When that fails, he switches to Plan B: pounding on them hard enough to wake the dead. The sound is like thunder, making me wince.
Real smooth, babe. Nothing says "we come in peace," quite like trying to break down the front door of a sacred temple.
The ancient doors finally surrender with a groan that echoes through the frigid air, as if the building sighs in resignation. We scramble inside like frozen refugees, and my jaw nearly hits the floor. The interior stretches upward into what seems like infinity, and the ceiling is so far above us that it disappears into shadows.
I push back my snow-crusted hood, sending a mini avalanche of ice crystals cascading around my shoulders as I spin in a slow circle. The space around us could swallow entire city blocks whole—it makes Grand Central Station look like a cozy closet in comparison. Gigantic pillars, each thick enough to wrap a bus around, soar upward into the gloom, their surfaces etched with glowing runes that cast ethereal light across the polished stone floor.
My neck starts to ache from craning back to take it all in. Whoever built this place had a severe edifice complex. Though I've got to admit, they nailed the "awe-inspiring architecture" aesthetic. It's like someone took every description of a magical citadel, cranked it up to eleven, and then decided that it still wasn't impressive enough.
"You've returned."
The voice booms through the vast chamber, making us whirl around like startled cats. Standing there, looking like he just stepped out of a mythological bodybuilding competition, is a mountain of a man. His bronze skin gleams in the ethereal light, and those acid-green eyes seem to strip away every secret I've ever had.
"Heimdall." Rhyland's voice carries a mix of recognition and wariness. "Yes. Where is everyone?"
I try not to gawk at the giant before us, but it's hard when the guy is pushing eight feet tall and wearing armor that looks forged from pure sunlight. The golden metal ripples with intricate designs that pulse with their own inner glow, making him look like a walking constellation.
"Gone." Heimdall's response drops like a stone in a still pond.
Well, isn't that just wonderfully cryptic? These immortal types need to work on their communication skills. Would it kill them to elaborate once in a while?
My heart does a pathetic little flutter at the realization I won't be having any daddy-daughter time today. Not that I should be surprised—apparently, the God of Light is too busy polishing his halo to spare five minutes for his chosen savior. Sure, he'll chat up my man all day long, but his own flesh and blood? Nah, that's not worth his precious immortal time.
The fact that I even care makes me want to punch something. Here I am, getting all emotional over a father who couldn't be bothered to lift a celestial finger when I needed help. It's like having a paper cut that won't heal—this tiny, persistent ache that shouldn't hurt as much as it does.
And then there's my mysterious sister—the original chosen one who didn't make the gig. I'd been secretly hoping to meet her, to find someone who understands what it's like to have the world's most emotionally unavailable deity for a father. But it looks like that particular family reunion will have to wait.
Awesome.
"What do you mean gone?" Rhyland demands, his voice echoing off the ancient walls.
Heimdall glides toward us with the grace of a predator, each step making his armor sing. "As in Elysium returned to his realm, Odin went back to Ásgard, and Bryn returned to the Valors Watch." Those eerie green eyes lock onto me like targeting lasers. "You must be Danica." His gaze slides to Erik. "And who is this?"
