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.