Capítulo 28: Chapter 28: The Night of the Others
Clark's POV
The moon was a thin crescent, barely a sliver of light in the dark sky above. The cold was biting, sharper than it had been the previous night, and the camp had settled into an uneasy quiet. The Wildlings, despite their grim resolve, knew that danger was never far when the Wall was behind them and the frozen lands stretched endlessly ahead.
Clark sat apart from the others, his mind still churning with the weight of the day. He had always been aware of the growing power inside him, but tonight, the sensation was different—more pressing. It wasn't just the physical strength or speed. It was the way he could feel the air itself vibrating, the earth beneath him pulsating with a strange, sinister rhythm. Something was coming. Something that had been lurking just beyond their reach for weeks, and now, it was closing in.
The camp was spread thin, with the majority of the people huddled by small fires, sleeping beneath layers of furs and hides. Clark kept his distance, not wanting to disturb them, his senses stretched to their limits as he listened to the winds, the cracks in the earth, the whispers of the trees. But there was something else. A low hum. A thrum that felt wrong—unnatural.
Suddenly, a chill swept through the camp like a cold breath, and the wind shifted. The firelight flickered, casting long shadows that seemed to move unnaturally. Clark's eyes darted across the camp, and he could hear it then—the faintest rustle in the trees beyond, followed by a distant, bone-chilling howl.
At first, it seemed like the normal noises of the wilderness. But there was something about it. Something that set Clark's heart pounding in his chest. The Others were near.
Before anyone could react, a sharp blast of freezing wind swept through the camp, sending a wave of icy terror through the Wildlings. They were unprepared. Most were too slow to even grab their weapons before the Wights were upon them. The creatures surged into the camp, their skeletal forms draped in ragged remnants of old armor, their pale skin an unnatural shade of death.
Chaos erupted.
Mance Rayder's voice rang out, commanding, though uncertain, his wildlings scrambling to fight, to defend themselves. Skor and Magnar Styr were already shouting orders, their weapons drawn, but even the fiercest among them seemed taken aback by the sheer number of the undead.
Clark's heart raced. He could hear the crack of bone, the scream of a woman being dragged into the night. The air grew cold enough to see one's breath in the starlit darkness, but it wasn't just the temperature. The very presence of the Others sent an unnatural chill into the marrow of their bones, making it harder to fight back.
Clark's heightened senses went into overdrive, and in that instant, everything changed. A sharp, harsh scream split the night, a cry that wasn't human. The ground beneath him trembled as shapes emerged from the woods—pale figures, their movements unnaturally stiff and jerky, their eyes glowing with an eerie blue light.
The White Walkers were here.
Clark's instincts screamed at him to act, but his hesitation held him back. The Wildlings fought around him, using axes and swords, but the Wights seemed almost endless, emerging from every direction. His hearing was filled with the sounds of battle—grunts, shouts, the clash of steel—but there was no way he could make a difference with his fists alone.
His fear was palpable. He knew his powers had grown, but could he really use them in a situation like this? His body felt like it was on fire, his muscles screaming to act, but he held himself back. He didn't want to be the one to step into the role of some weapon, some force of nature. Not like this.
Then, as if the world had decided for him, a Wight charged from the shadows, its dead eyes locked on him. Its movements were swift, predatory. Clark's instincts took over. He sidestepped its slashing sword, his hand catching the undead creature's arm before it could strike. The force of his grip crushed the bone beneath the thin remnants of flesh, and the creature staggered back, its arm hanging limply.
But it didn't stop. They never stopped.
A scream pierced the air—another Wildling was down. Clark's gaze shifted, and his heart sank. The White Walkers weren't just in the camp now. They were everywhere.
The moment of hesitation that had gripped Clark shattered. The fear that held him back—of revealing his powers, of becoming something he wasn't ready to be—was eclipsed by something deeper. The need to protect, to fight for survival. He had to use his powers. There was no choice.
He let the energy surge through him. His vision sharpened, and for a moment, everything seemed to slow down around him. His mind cleared as the growing hum of his abilities drowned out everything else. He could feel it, the raw energy building in his chest, something hot and desperate, growing brighter with every heartbeat.
The first pulse of his heat vision was like a shot of lightning. It tore through the air, cutting through the Wight in front of him, disintegrating its face in an instant. The force of the blast sent the creature's head flying, the scorched remnants of its body collapsing to the ground.
But that wasn't enough. More were coming.
Desperation fueled him now. The Wildlings were losing ground. More Wights, more Walkers emerged from the woods, their numbers overwhelming. Clark's heart thundered in his chest, his senses filled with the chaos, the cries of the dying.
Then, without thinking, he let it out.
A surge of heat burst from his eyes, bright and blinding, carving a path through the dark. His laser vision sliced through the ranks of the undead, searing the Wights down one by one, the air around him shimmering from the intensity of his power. The first few blasts were controlled—precise, methodical—but as the number of foes grew, Clark's restraint began to slip. Each flash of light was like a cry for help, a desperate attempt to keep the tide from overwhelming them.
With each strike, more Wights were reduced to ash, their forms disintegrating under the searing heat. The White Walkers remained unscathed for now, watching from the periphery, their cold, dead eyes fixed on the boy who was wielding fire like a god.
Mance Rayder shouted in disbelief from across the camp, rallying his people, but it was clear that Clark had already done what no one else could. He was the only thing standing between the Wildlings and complete annihilation.
By the time the sun's first light began to creep over the horizon, the camp was a scene of carnage. The Wights were gone, but the cost had been high. Many had fallen—men, women, children. Some fought bravely, but most were overwhelmed by the relentless onslaught. The ground was stained with blood and ice, the dead of both sides littering the snow.
Clark stood, panting heavily, his chest heaving from the effort. His eyes burned from the intensity of his heat vision, the aftermath of his unleashing echoing through his body. But there was no time to reflect. The battle wasn't over. The White Walkers were still out there, and they were only just beginning.
The Wildlings looked at him now with a new awareness. Fear, awe, and something else—something Clark didn't want to face—were in their eyes. They had seen what he could do. They had seen him wield the power of fire and death.
But for now, there was no time for questions. There was only survival.
Estado de energía semanal
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