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 8: The Threads that Bind Us
The Mistwing forged onwards, its flanks cleaving the quietly burgeoning breadth of the Emaris river. Each sunrise found the river broader than the last, the water’s mirror stretching in silky panes beneath a sky mottled with the slow drift of cloud.