By the time the sun dipped just past its peak, the family's carriage crested the final snowy ridge. Baker leaned forward instinctively, Cel curled warmly in his lap, and the world opened in front of him.
His eyes widened.
The northern town wasn't merely big—it was alive and fortified, a vibrant mix of civilization and military strength wrapped in gleaming frost.
Massive stone walls rose from the frozen ground like the spines of a slumbering giant. Each was thick enough for a wagon to travel atop and tall enough that even Selene let out a low, appreciative whistle. Etched into the stone were shimmering blue runes—permanent frost-ward sigils that kept ice from accumulating and strengthened the walls against assault.
Dozens of guard towers dotted the perimeter, each manned by pairs of armored soldiers scanning the snowy plains with keen eyes. Their spears and halberds glimmered in the cold light.
But it was the life outside the gate that truly struck Baker.
A long queue of travelers stretched along the road, bundled in thick coats, scarves, and furs. Merchants, hunters, wagon caravans, trappers, and even small family groups waited patiently for inspection. Snow crunched beneath boots and wheels as the frozen traffic crept forward.
Children played off to the side, their laughter carrying on the crisp northern wind. A group of them rolled snow into uneven balls, shouting about making "the biggest frost giant ever." Another pair chased each other, slipping and skidding on patches of ice.
One mother shook her mitten-covered fist and scolded them lightly:
"Mind the road! If the guard captain sees you sliding around again, she'll make me do the slipping!"
The kids just giggled harder.
Near a merchant's wagon, two men laughed as they tried to tie down a tarp that the wind kept snapping back. Another group warmed their hands over a portable brazier, steam rising from cups of hot berry-brew.
The entire scene felt… warm. Despite the biting cold.
Baker felt his chest grow strangely full.
He had seen small villages, towns, bustling inns, but this—this was life on a scale he wasn't used to. Comfortable chaos. People living, working, joking, surviving together in a harsh climate.
Clarisse leaned forward beside him and exhaled fondly. "The North is cold, but the people are warm. You'll see."
The carriage joined the queue, Selene atop her horse guiding them smoothly into line.
Baker continued staring, absorbing every detail.
He saw the soldiers at the gate—at least thirty of them rotating positions in shifts. Their armor was thick but beautifully made, designed to repel frost mana. Many carried spears infused with a faint icy glow—enchanted weapons meant to neutralize frost beasts and enforce order.
The line moved steadily. Guards questioned travelers with polite firmness, checked identification papers, inspected wagons, and let people through in organized waves. Everything about the process screamed trained, disciplined, efficient.
This wasn't just a town.
It was a fortress community.
A bulwark of the North.
Cel lifted his little head and watched the passing groups, ears twitching as he absorbed the flurry of sounds and emotions.
Ventis smiled softly, watching Baker take everything in.
"This is where your grandparents have lived all their lives," she said. "They built much of this. Guarded it. Kept it safe."
Clarisse nodded. "Their leadership has shaped these lands for three generations now."
The carriage moved forward step by step.
Passing merchants shouted greetings to the guards.
Hunters hauled large pelts—some Zoar skins among them.
Families chatted about winter festivals.
A pair of blacksmith apprentices argued about steel quality while a dwarf woman loudly corrected both of them.
Everything blended into a bustling, vibrant tapestry.
For a long moment, Baker simply sat there, Cel humming with quiet frost mana in his lap, and thought:
This is the world my grandparents protect. This is the world my mother grew up in.
And just like that… the North felt important.
Real.
A place he wanted to understand.
A place he wanted to be worthy of.
When their carriage finally approached the main gate arch—runed stone towering overhead—two armored guards stepped forward.
Their armor bore a crest Baker recognized from his mother's stories: a stylized silver snowflake crossed with a spear.
The emblem of his grandparents' house.
Baker's heart jumped.
The guards inspected the carriage, eyes widening slightly when they recognized Ventis Cross.
One saluted sharply.
"Lady Ventis! Welcome home."
Ventis offered a polite nod, though her eyes softened. "It's good to see the town thriving."
With respect bordering on awe, the guards ushered them through immediately.
The heavy gate doors swung open, warm torchlight spilling through from within the city.
Baker inhaled deeply as the carriage entered.
The northern town wasn't just fortified.
It was alive, warm, spirited, and far more beautiful than he ever imagined.