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 11: Night in the Ravines
The hours had aged the camp, carving silence between the figures gathered close to the fire’s frail light. The embers pulsed in fitful rhythm, casting wavering silhouettes against the alcove’s stone, their forms both shelter and prison as the ravines beyond surrendered to blackness. The sky, heavy and implacable, withheld its stars, save for a lone silver moon strung low and watchful, its face blurred by drifting veils of mist.