The wind picked up.

  They adjusted their cloaks in unison—Zafran pulling his hood tighter, Isolde drawing her scarf closer around her neck.

  The forest behind them had thinned into a harsher land. Pines grew sparse. The earth turned brittle. Snow clung in patches where shadows lingered longest. It was the beginning of the Velgrath highlands—where the terrain forgot warmth, and even time seemed slower.

  Old wagon grooves still marked the path, etched deep into frost-bitten rock. No wheels had passed here in years.

  They moved in silence.

  A broken outpost came into view: collapsed roof, rusted lanterns, a warped bench beneath a dead tree. Nothing remained but shape and memory.

  “It’s getting colder,” Zafran said.

  Isolde didn’t glance back. “Can’t bear it?”

  “It’s not a complaint.”

  They passed under a leaning archstone, half-swallowed by creeping ice. Snow began to dust the wind again, slow and deliberate.

  “First time in Velgrath?” she asked, lightly.

  “No,” he replied. “But rarely. The Azure Wind doesn’t trade here often—Velgrath’s not kind to travelers.”

  “Remember their story?”

  “Exaggerated.”

  “Most stories are.”

  They walked on.

  The ground began to shift beneath their feet—less dirt now, more gravel. The color of the stone darkened, tinged with old ash. Frost crept deeper into the cracks. What trees remained twisted inward, bark charred in places, limbs bare even for winter.

  Far ahead, through a narrow gap in the cliffs, a thin trail of smoke rose—faint, almost unreal. It curled against the gray sky like something the land had tried to forget.

  Then, after a quiet beat: “Still… it feels like walking through something that hasn’t decided if it’s dead or not.” Zafran said, glanced toward the pale sky.

  No reply.

  Just the sound of boots on frozen earth, and the long, thin wind threading between stone.

  They had been walking for over a week.

  The forest behind them had withered into memory. In its place came a white silence, vast and watchful. The trail—if it could still be called that—wound its way through snow-thick plains and skeletal hills. Only the frozen tracks of carts guided their steps now, grooved into the ground like old scars.

  Each night brought a different kind of stillness.

  The first, they camped beside a half-buried waystone, its carvings smoothed by time, still faintly glowing with forgotten runes. Someone had once believed this place sacred. Neither of them said as much.

  The second night was spent in the ruins of a collapsed watchtower—its foundation cracked wide, stones scattered like the ribs of some fallen beast. Zafran swept snow from a sheltered corner while Isolde lit a low flame with practiced hands.

  Another day, they found a ring of trees growing close, too tightly spaced to be natural. Old magic, perhaps. Or the last stubborn grove clinging to Velgrath’s bones. They made camp beneath its tangled branches, the wind muted for once.

  On the sixth night, they stumbled onto a traveler’s post—an old rest station carved into a ridge, barely standing. A wooden sign still hung above the doorway, swinging with each gust. Inside, a stone hearth, cracked but dry. They lit a fire that night. Warmth returned, if only for a few hours.

  And then—on the seventh day—the hills parted.

  A wide, open field rolled out before them, coated in shallow snow. Empty, save for one building in the distance.

  A tavern.

  Not grand, not clean. Its roof was sloped and warped from winters past. Smoke curled from a crooked chimney. A single hanging lantern marked the door, glowing amber against the frost.

  Zafran slowed his pace.

  Isolde said nothing—but didn’t stop him.

  They moved toward it, boots crunching over the field, their breath fogging ahead of them. The wind quieted. For the first time in days, the cold felt still—not empty, but expectant.

  The sign above the door read:

  The Halfway Hearth.

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  “Seems like a better place than roadside?” Zafran said, glancing at her.

  Isolde paused, eyeing the crooked lantern. “Depends on what’s cooking.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You planning to judge their stew?”

  “You’re paying,” she replied, and stepped inside without waiting.

  No other buildings in sight. No road, no name.

  Just a tavern at the edge of nowhere. And a light waiting inside.

  The door groaned open, the sound dry and old as the wood itself.

  Warmth met them like a breath—real warmth, from firewood and stone, not spelllight or copper lines. Smoke hung in the air, touched with roasted roots and something vaguely meaty.

  The tavern was small. Ceiling low. Stone walls, dark timber beams. A fire crackled in a wide hearth at the far end, casting a soft orange sway across worn floorboards.

  A few patrons filled the space—two merchants over mugs, a woman sharpening a knife by the window, and a traveler asleep by the fire, blanket pulled to his nose.

  Not busy.

  Not empty either.

  Zafran and Isolde took the corner table. Quiet. Out of the way. They sat without a word. The bench creaked. The heat soaked in slow, unwinding the cold that had settled deep into their bones.

  After a moment, the innkeeper came over—a broad man, silver streaks in his tied-back hair, sleeves rolled to the elbow, towel slung over one arm. His eyes swept the two of them, sharp but not suspicious.

  “Rooms upstairs,” he said. “Stew’s still hot. Root wine if you don’t mind it bitter.”

  Zafran nodded. “One room. Two bowls. Wine’s fine.”

  The man gave a grunt of approval and moved off, his boots soft against the boards.

  Isolde stretched her fingers toward the table, rubbing the stiffness from her hands. “Feels like I haven’t been indoors in a year.”

  “You miss cities?” Zafran asked, leaning back a little.

  “I miss chairs.”

  He smiled faintly, then glanced her way. “Funny. First time I met you, you were sitting in a tavern. Tavreth, Silent Desert.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Oh. Right. The time you tried to hit on me.”

  “I did not.”

  She gave a small, knowing chuckle. Brief, but real.

  “Why were you even there?” he asked. “If you were already following the Crimson Hand?”

  “I was. One of their cells had gone into the desert.”

  “Why?”

  “No idea. But they were heading north. Toward some ruin.”

  Zafran paused, then frowned. “Aftree’s temple?”

  She nodded. “You know it?”

  “We were sent there too. Karin’s mission was to retrieve something—called the Flame Heart. But we found nothing.”

  Isolde leaned back, thinking. “That must be what Varzen took. Before he ran. I didn’t know what it was… but he had something.”

  “So that’s why the temple was empty,” Zafran muttered. “It’s all tied together.”

  “Maybe,” she said, then reached for the wine. “We’ll figure it out later. Right now, I care more about stew.”

  Zafran raised an eyebrow. “You? Hungry?”

  She shot him a look. “I walked through frost for a week. I’m not made of smoke.”

  Their food arrived—two bowls of thick stew, steaming hot. Potatoes, soft cabbage, something like venison. The root wine was sharp but warming.

  They ate in comfortable silence.

  After a time, the innkeeper returned, leaning casually against the edge of their table.

  “Passing through?” he asked. “Don’t see many strangers these days. Velgrath’s not much for tourism.”

  “Seems that way,” Zafran said.

  The man nodded toward the door. “Snow’s late this year. Makes for a longer cold. Supplies run thin this far up. City folks think their trains solve everything, but they stop miles below us. Our fields are half-dead.”

  “You’re a ways from Cloudspeak,” Isolde said.

  He shrugged. “Close enough to smell the smog. Far enough to still breathe.”

  His eyes flicked to their cloaks and gear. “You heading up to the capital?”

  Zafran gave a small nod. “We are. Heard anything?”

  The innkeeper scratched his jaw. “Not much. The capital stays quiet lately. Watching more than talking.”

  He didn’t press further. Just set a key down on the table. “Room’s ready. Don’t trust the wine past two mugs. That one’s on the house.”

  Zafran picked up the key, turning it in his hand. “Only one?”

  “That’s the last one left.”

  The man walked off, calling a greeting to a new patron stomping snow off his boots.

  Isolde finished her stew and set her spoon aside. “You’re sleeping on the floor.”

  Zafran sighed. “At least you’re not making me sleep here at the table.”

  She gave a tired smirk. “I thought about it.”

  The fire crackled on.

  Outside, the wind moved like a ghost along the walls.

  But inside—for the first time in days—there was warmth.

  The room was small.

  Wooden walls. Slanted ceiling. One narrow window iced over from the outside. The bed creaked when either of them moved—not that they moved much.

  Isolde took the bed. Zafran laid a blanket out on the floor by the wall. Neither commented on the arrangement. It had been understood since the moment the key hit the table.

  The wind outside never stopped. It whispered along the boards and whistled faintly past the shutters. Somewhere downstairs, a chair scraped. Laughter, faint and brief. Then silence again.

  Zafran lay still, one arm behind his head, staring up at the ceiling.

  “You’re not sleeping,” Isolde said.

  “Neither are you.”

  A beat passed.

  “Do you always stare at ceilings when you can’t sleep?” she asked.

  “Better than staring at regrets.”

  That made her pause.

  Then, quietly, she said, “Hmph. Poetic.”

  “It’s the wine,” he muttered.

  Another silence stretched between them, longer this time. Not uncomfortable—just cool, settled.

  “Your father,” she said eventually. “You’ve never told me what he did. Before… all that.”

  Zafran’s gaze didn’t shift. “He was a royal knight. Commander of his order. The kind they write about.”

  “And?”

  “And none of it mattered. One mission. He turned traitor, no ones know if it’s true or not, And then he was killed, right on the spot. End of story.”

  She exhaled through her nose. “And then, you were banished?”

  “Yeah, how would you deal with son of a traitor who planned to killed the princess?”

  “And yet that princess send you to this mission”

  “It’s quite… complicate,”

  “Sounds politic”

  “Yes, politic”

  She didn’t respond to that. Just shifted on the bed, turning to face the wall.

  Zafran let the quiet settle again.

  Then, softer: “He taught me how to draw a sword without hatred. Said hate makes your grip tighten. Slows you down.”

  That seems like something he talk directly to her,

  She kept silence for quite a long time,

  Isolde didn’t answer right away. Her voice came low, almost reluctant.

  “My father taught me how to read trade ledgers. Said numbers lie less than nobles.”

  Zafran’s lips curled faintly.

  “That’s why you hate most people?”

  “I don’t hate most,” she said. “Just enough.”

  The wind groaned through the walls again.

  Eventually, she murmured as she’s felling as sleep, “Good night, Ocean Tide.”

  Zafran closed his eyes.

  Morning came gray and cold.

  The tavern was quiet, the fire long faded. Outside, the wind had picked up again—sharper now, carrying fine snow across the open field.

  Zafran and Isolde left without much conversation.

  A few silver left on the table. Their cloaks pulled tight. Boots crunching over frost as they returned to the trail, leaving the Halfway Hearth behind like a warm breath exhaled and forgotten.

  The mountains waited.

  And farther north, Cloudspeak loomed—still out of sight, but not out of reach.