Chapter 45

  The way back through the corridors of the Wolve Howler was uneventful, but I remained alert. The velvet-red curtains closed behind me like a memory best left buried, and as my steps led me back into the main room, I noticed something: nothing here had changed—and yet everything was different.

  The magical orbs still floated above the guests like lazy fireflies, casting their warm glow on those indulging in their vices. The scent of alcohol, cheap incense, and the sweat of hundreds of bodies still hung in the air like a filthy veil. But there were new faces now.

  At one of the round tables sat a group of human mercenaries, weathered skin, clinking gear, and sharp eyes that scanned everything that moved. At the dice table, a bard had taken his place—a young man with a finely embroidered golden cloak and a grin far too confident, twirling the dice between his fingers with practiced ease. And at the central bar—the one where drinks from Arcania and Ferania were served—where Maira most definitely wasn’t supposed to be—there she sat. Vin beside her.

  “What are you doing here?” I hissed under my breath as I quickly sat down next to them, trying not to cause a scene. “You were supposed to stay outside!”

  Maira turned toward me. Her gaze was calm—not mocking, not cold, but not soft either. No anger, no sadness. Just that hard-to-define mixture of resolve and quiet concern. A look that said more than words: I know what you’re going through. I know what you carry. But I’m not leaving anyway.

  “We didn’t want to go too far,” she said plainly. “So you could still find us in this chaotic city. Besides, it’s cold out. Damn cold.”

  Before Luken could reply, Vin leaned in slightly, curiosity flickering in her eyes. Despite her 32 years, she looked as young as ever. “Did you find Rurik?” she asked—too loudly.

  The dryad behind the bar immediately glanced over her narrow shoulder. Her green eyes shimmered like dewdrops at dawn, resting on Luken. Her skin had the soft glow of fresh moss, traced with delicate dark green veins. Where others had ears, her temples bore thin, leaf-like outgrowths, and instead of hair, her head was crowned with a loose, natural tangle of vines, leaves, and fine twigs that moved slightly—as if they had a will of their own.

  She said nothing at first but slid a glass aside with an elegant motion and leaned in a little closer.

  “Rurik is the city-lord… but it’s no surprise newcomers wouldn’t know that,” she said in a voice soft like wind rustling through leaves. She didn’t seem annoyed—more amused. “Most people don’t care about him anyway.”

  I raised an eyebrow slightly. “Because Reyn handles the politics, right?” It came out harsher than intended.

  The dryad didn’t flinch. Instead, a thin smile played across her lips—almost too perfect, too controlled.

  “Indeed,” she replied briefly, then tilted her head ever so slightly. “Can I offer you something, young man?” Her voice dipped just a shade deeper, and her smile lingered on my face a moment too long. It wasn’t quite flirtation—or at least, not only that. It was a test. A game of instinct.

  I met her gaze—with cold calm.

  But a shiver still crawled down the back of my neck.

  “No thanks. Just one question,” I said, leaning one elbow against the counter, unable to fully rein in my curiosity. “Why do you live here, so far up north? Don’t dryads usually live in the most beautiful forests of Tirros? I heard your kind doesn’t even survive the cold properly.”

  That might not have been the most tactful way to phrase it. The reaction came accordingly swift. The dryad raised an eyebrow, the leafy outgrowths at her temples twitched slightly, and the look in her eyes grew… frostier than the air outside. And that was saying something.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  “I…” Her voice was softer now—not vulnerable, but more cautious. “I adapted. I had to. Since I couldn’t go home anymore.”

  A brief moment hung between us—not uncomfortable, but definitely one I didn’t want to intrude upon. Everyone has their shadows. I respected that. I lowered my gaze just a touch, let the subject drop, and turned back to Vin and Maira.

  “Well then,” Vin suddenly said, hopping off her stool and nodding toward the door, “shall we go and look for a place to stay?”

  “I know one,” the dryad chimed in, though no one had asked her. Her voice was neutral again, almost businesslike. “The Ice Mountain. An inn near the city center. Warm. Dry. Much more normal than… this.” She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice at the end. Her eyes flicked briefly over to the dancing bard troupe in the corner, then to the dimly lit alcoves, from which came sounds I really didn’t want to identify.

  I forced a smile. “Thanks for the tip.” Then I reached for my helmet, put it on, and turned to my two companions. Together, we walked toward the exit.

  The noise of the Wolve Howler faded behind us, muffled by the thick entrance door as we stepped out into Thulegard’s cold air. Snowflakes danced in the darkness, the sky hidden by dense fog.

  I paused for a moment, frowning. “Tell me… how did you two even get in?” I still remembered the hulking doorman clearly—the dragonborn with glowing blue scales, who hadn’t exactly been fond of me.

  Vin grinned mischievously and pulled her coat tighter around herself. “A bit of honest persuasion… mixed with a touch of calming spell. Turns out—even thick-scaled bouncers have soft hearts.”

  I snorted softly, unable to stop a smirk from creeping across my face.

  -

  The closer we came to the center of Thulegard, the more the atmosphere changed. The narrow, slightly sloping streets, previously lined with frost-covered houses, gradually opened into wider lanes flanked by massive stone buildings. Above our heads hung metal lanterns, burning with magically fueled flames—not ordinary fire, but a bluish, flickering light that not only lit the streets but gave off warmth. A welcome gift in this world of ice and wind. The cold still bit into the skin, but it had become gentler, softer, like a predator that had already fed.

  With the light came life. Merchant stalls lined the streets, some anchored permanently in shacks of black wood, others mobile carts drawn by furry lizard-beasts with slow, heavy eyes. The air was thick with the scent of spices, smoke, metal—and magic. You could feel the hum of mana, subtle and constant, like the faint song of a crystal that only a few could truly hear.

  At one stall, I saw a row of finely crafted weapons—swords, daggers, spears—each blade made of clear, almost translucent ice. They gave off a faint glow, enhanced by embedded mana crystals. The vendor, an older dwarf woman with a braided beard and a rough voice, was explaining to an interested buyer that these blades could freeze even demonic wounds. Genuine goods from the Skavol Glacier Lake.

  A little further on, smoked ice-salmon was being sold on slabs of frozen obsidian. The smell was strong, salty, yet oddly sweet—an aromatic wonder. Nearby, and almost ironically, a bulky dragonborn with deep red skin and a gaze as cold as frost hawked scales from an ice dragon. “Fortifying, protective, even toughens the skin for a while,” he advertised. A group of goblins stood giggling beside him, arguing whether you could use the stuff to make underwear.

  But what truly caught the eye was the sheer diversity of races. It was as if half the world had gathered here: towering, silent ogres with frost-covered shoulders; tieflings with glowing eyes and horns hidden beneath hoods; sleek dark elves with shadowed eyes and metal veils across their faces; beastfolk—some more animal, others more human—but all wearing the same expression of survival, experience, and freedom. And everywhere, truly everywhere: dragonborn. In every color, size, and temperament. Some armored, others in mage robes, some merchants, beggars, priests, or brawlers. A species met with suspicion in other lands was here a vital part of society. It made me seriously question what Narla had told me.

  Thulegard was… different. Not a rundown melting pot like those so-called Free Cities. There, diversity was only an ideal on paper—in reality, it usually ended in impoverished slums where the various peoples fought each other for the little they had. Uprisings, looting, the occasional erasure of an entire city—that wasn’t rare in the Free Cities. It was normal. A pretty idea drowned in blood and filth.

  But Thulegard was no dream. It was real. A cold, proud reality of stone, fire, and snow. The city didn’t thrive despite its diversity—it thrived because of it. Its grandeur wasn’t flashy but practical. The facades were simple, yet adorned with ancient northern symbols. Towers reached into the gray sky like steel fingers, and even the noise of the crowd had a different tone here. Not chaotic. But alive. Organized.

  I felt Maira’s gaze on me as we walked through the crowd, and when I looked over at her, she gave a slow nod. She had noticed it too.

  Thulegard wasn’t a city of dreams. Thulegard was a bastion. A place where the impossible worked—and not because of magic.

  But because of cold pride.