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 5: Knotwork in the Deep
The moon stood sovereign in a vault of crystal winter sky, its argent light tumbling down over the river mist, painting the world in spectral blues and silvered whites. Drakkensund held its breath beneath this cold blessing, still as a painting, the quiet broken only by the distant whisper of wind chimes and the occasional long, melancholy groan of river ice shifting beneath its frosted carapace.
Chapter 4: Drakkensund
Snow lay thick upon the track, crusted where the wind had hardened it, soft where the trees had sheltered the fall. Tavik led the way in measured silence, the watchfulness in his eyes as constant as the steam of his breath. Bran kept beside him, steps brisk, but his head turned often to glance back down the line, back towards the deeper forest they'd left behind. Each backward glance brushed against Nix's nerves like a burr, a small thing, made sharp by the knowledge it reflected.
Chapter 1: Nix
Rain pocked the frost-hardened lane, sending shards of ice and grit skittering in startled bursts. The willows hung low over the path, their heads heavy and bent as the sky darkened and rumbled. The wind shifted and turned, shouldering the plunging raindrops sideways as the air bit sharper with cold.