Frost clings to the roots of ancient trees, and the air tastes of rain long fallen. Paths wind through forests that shift when unlooked at, and rivers murmur in tongues older than the stones they pass. In this land, magic does not announce itself — it waits, patient as winter, until the moment it chooses to rise. Those who travel here will find beauty and peril braided together, and the choices they make will echo far beyond the sound of their own footsteps.
The Scrollkeepers Archive
Chapter 18: Dreams & Departure
The candles had burned low, wax pooling in their holders like frozen tears, when Oren looked up from his reading and saw the way his brothers and cousin slumped in their chairs. Bran’s eyes had taken on that glazed quality that came before sleep, his book propped open on the table though his gaze had long since stopped tracking the words.