Ragnar's Strength

The wind, usually Corvus's confidante, now seemed to keen with a mournful sound, a symphony of warnings that prickled the raven’s feathers. They had ventured deeper into the jagged maw of the mountains than any of them had ever dared. The air grew thin and sharp, biting at their exposed fur and skin. Snow, freshly fallen and deep, cushioned their steps but also hid treacherous drops and unstable ground. Corvus, perched on Ragnar’s broad back, scanned the unforgiving terrain, his keen eyes searching for any sign, any whisper from the spirits that might guide them.

Luna trotted ahead, her boundless energy a stark contrast to the oppressive silence of the peaks. She’d bounded off a snowdrift with a playful yip, her tail a blur of white against the grey rock, only to stop abruptly, her ears swiveling. “Corvus? Do you hear that?” she’d asked, her voice a little higher than usual.

Corvus tilted his head, listening. Above the wind’s lament, he heard it too – a low, grinding rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very bones of the mountain. It was the sound of stone shifting, of earth groaning under an immense, unseen pressure. “It’s not good,” he croaked, his voice tight with a sudden fear. “The mountain is angry.”