The northern forest stretched for many miles. A sea of withered giants, thick with fog and silence. Towering pines clawed at the overcast sky, their dark needles soaked in frost, and their trunks scarred by age and wind.
Snow coated the ground in scattered patches, melting slowly into the mossy earth beneath.
The air was bitter—so cold it stung the lungs—but there was peace in its stillness, and there was hope, the kind of quiet that swallowed footsteps and silenced even the birds.
A faint golden shimmer traced the perimeter of the forest, where Lanard's talismans hung on brittle branches and hollow stones.
Their paper edges barely fluttered, but the power woven into them distorted space, bending light and memory. From the outside, no path led in.
