Chapter 47

  The night at the Ice Mountain – I knew it the moment I closed my eyes – was one of the most surprising nights of my life so far. No sword at my side to clutch in half-sleep. No half-lidded eyes tracking every movement in the room. No demon slithering through my thoughts, whispering, mocking, demanding. No cold, damp straw mattress to remind me of something I'd rather forget. And no screaming memories. Just warmth.

  The room was large, almost luxurious, with a thick, braided wool rug on the floor so soft I’d almost walked across it barefoot. The bedposts were carved from dark brown wood, etched with runic patterns I didn’t recognize—but they felt comforting. As if they held a story they only told when no one was listening. The mattress was thick, the pillow almost too soft. And the blanket? A warm, heavy woolen cover made from the fur of northern bears or something similar, its weight wrapping around me like a shield.

  And the most astonishing part: I actually fell asleep.

  Just like that.

  No voice in my head. No stirring from Gravor. Not even the faintest whisper. Maybe he was tired too. Maybe even he... was at peace? The thought was almost funny.

  There was silence in my mind. And that was something I didn’t know. Silence usually unsettled me.

  But this time...

  I simply sank into it.

  Of course, the thoughts still came—they always did, even in silence.

  Reyn. The official Lord of Thulegard, the man who held everything in his hands.

  And our target. Or rather: my target.

  I was supposed to bring him down. So that Rurik—the one who asked me for this “small” favor—could take power.

  For information. For a piece of truth, a clue, maybe just a scrap about Zarkhural that I could painstakingly piece together into something bigger.

  But now, after experiencing this city—this bizarre, beautiful mix of chaos and harmony—I wondered: What if Reyn wasn’t the problem at all? What if this ordered chaos, this lived-togetherness of dryads, dragonborn, ogres, tieflings, humans, beastfolk, ashbloods and everything in between... what if it worked because of him?

  What if Rurik, with his rage, his ambition, his hunger for control, would bring this fragile balance crashing down?

  I didn’t know.

  But I knew one thing: I was tired. I shook my head slightly, half asleep, half awake.

  There would be time later. For politics. For morals. For decisions.

  Part of me was still surprised that I wasn’t sharing a room with Vin and Maira.

  The Ashblood—Arik, as he had introduced himself, with a proud smile and flickering eyes—had insisted. “Privacy matters,” he’d said. “Especially for travelers like you. In Thulegard, we only share rooms when we want to.”

  I hadn’t had the energy to argue. Neither did Maira or Vin.

  When Arik was called away for the third time by a bellowing orc at the tap, we let the matter drop.

  I believed him anyway.

  He meant well. And that… was rare in this world.

  So here I lay.

  Alone, for the first time in weeks, in a bed that didn’t smell of sweat and damp leather.

  A window let in the chill night air, but the blankets kept me warm. Outside, there were bursts of laughter, the clinking of mugs, and somewhere, someone played a flute—off-key, but full of heart.

  And I thought, one last time, just before I finally fell asleep:

  Maybe this place is too good to be true.

  -

  The milky chill of dawn still clung to Thulegard when I opened my eyes. Outside, it was quiet—no market cries, no clatter of hooves, no music. Only the soft creaking of the ancient wooden beams of the Ice Mountain, as if the building itself were breathing in its sleep. I lay motionless for a moment, staring at the ceiling where the shadows of dancing flames from the hallway flickered across the wooden planks. Then I took a deep breath. Time to move on. Or at least—time to think further.

  Still in bed, I placed my hand on the sword leaning against the edge. The blade was still wrapped in Gravor’s black veil, a thin, deceptively elegant cloak of shadow. I fastened it at my side, slipped into my armor piece by piece, with practiced ease. I deliberately left the helmet behind. Today, I wanted to see, not hide.

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  The door opened with a deep but controlled creak. I stepped into the hallway. The air was cold but not unpleasant—it smelled of soot, old wood, and something spicy from the kitchen that reminded me of roasted root vegetables. But no sooner had I stepped out than the door right next to mine opened.

  A large beastkin with the body of a man and the heavy, brown head of a buffalo stared at me sleepily. His eyes were half closed, his breathing heavy. He made a low, throaty sound—somewhere between a sharp “psst!” and a grumbling snort. I couldn’t tell if it was a friendly plea for quiet or just general disapproval of my existence. I raised my hand briefly in apology, nodded slightly—and tiptoed on.

  I paused at the door to Vin and Maira’s room, hesitated, then knocked gently. Of course it was Vin who answered, immediately and at full volume: “Be right out!” I pressed my lips together. No sound came from the buffalo room. Thank you, I thought silently.

  After a minute, the door opened. Vin stood there, fresh, alert, with that wide smile of hers that was always just honest and lovely enough to avoid being annoying. Her hair was tied in a loose braid, her jacket—bought on the way to Thulegard—buttoned crookedly, but she radiated an unshakable excitement. “Time for Exploring!” she said, like a child headed to a festival.

  Behind her, Maira stepped out—and she was the complete opposite. Drowsy, hair tousled, shirt half open, she dragged herself from the room like a half-awakened goddess suffering from caffeine withdrawal. “You’re impossible…” she muttered hoarsely, rubbing her eyes. Still, she seemed… imposing. Not because of her form, but because of the presence that clung to her.

  Since Erebos’ appearance—that unsettlingly calm arrival where he had scolded Gravor and me like rebellious children and ended the entire fight with a single word—something in her had awakened. Or perhaps: been unleashed. Her eyes seemed less bright today, less divine. They were dull, as if something heavy had settled over them—fatigue, doubt, or simply a relapse into humanity.

  But one detail stood out immediately: a pendant. Gold-rimmed, oval, with a ruby-red center from which a black eye stared. Not a real one—but it felt real. And when my gaze lingered too long, it moved. Or… looked at me. I turned my head away. Instinctively. Maira noticed, of course. “A charm against mind control or psychic manipulation,” she said, as if answering a spoken question.

  We slowly made our way down the broad wooden staircase. The steps were worn, smooth, and creaked with every step, even though we tried to move quietly. I nodded while still eyeing the chain, without looking directly at it. “You think the residents are being influenced by something.” It didn’t sound like a question. More like stating a shared suspicion.

  She said nothing. But she didn’t have to. Her footsteps suddenly sounded firmer, more purposeful. As if my words had confirmed what she already knew.

  Downstairs, the taproom was still empty. The smell of old beer, ash, and roast lingered in the air, but weaker than the day before. The fireplaces hadn’t been lit yet, and only a few tired workers moved through the room, gathering mugs, polishing wood surfaces, murmuring to each other in unfamiliar languages.

  Outside, we were met by the crisp, frosty morning air drifting over the cobbled streets of Thulegard, brushing our faces like cool fingers. A fine veil of mist hung over the alleys—not thick fog, but a silvery breath that settled like magic on the rooftops. The snow from the day before had been trampled down and frozen, crunching dully under our boots. The sky above was still pale, but a faint orange was already glowing on the horizon through gray-blue clouds.

  The city was still asleep—or at least dozing. Most shutters were closed, smoke rose from only a few houses. A handful of early risers scurried through the streets: an elderly dwarf woman with a basket full of firewood, a slender tiefling carrying rolled-up scrolls under one arm, an orc boy yawning as he shoveled snow from a stone staircase.

  Only a few stalls were open. Near the central marketplace, where the streets met in a wide circle, some merchants were huddled under woolen cloaks, carefully presenting their goods—as if they weren’t selling, but exhibiting treasures. Steam rose from a kettle in which something root-like was boiling. A grumpy-looking troll offered smoked meat—probably from animals unknown outside Thulegard. And then there was a striking stall with a violet cloth fluttering in the wind.

  In front of it stood a male dark elf. His skin was ash-gray, almost metallic in the rising sun, his long white hair tied back in a knot. Despite the cold, he wore only a long dark red coat over light leather armor, and his face held the calm of someone who had arranged his goods at sunrise hundreds of times before. “Warming melons from the Black Vale! Only today—seven copper each! Keep you warm all day, strengthen the heart and… taste like summer.” His voice was silky and almost too melodic for a place like this.

  We stopped. Neatly stacked in wicker baskets in front of him lay melons—about the size of a fist, with smooth black skin veined with faint reddish lines. I examined one more closely. “You don’t see warming melons every day,” I murmured with genuine interest. I reached for my pouch, loosened the string and rummaged through it. One stone. Two nails. A piece of dried meat that was more dust than food. And… eight bronze coins. My heart skipped—a little, sadly not from joy. Damn.

  “That won’t even get me through half a day at the Ice Mountain…” I muttered. Beside me, Maira rummaged through her pouch too, making a slightly pained face. “I’ve only got two gold coins left…” “That’s 192 bronze more than I have.” My tone was sarcastic, but I wasn’t in the mood for laughter.

  I thought back. When was the last time I actually worked for money? Nothing came to mind. Just battles. Escapes. Missions where payment had never been agreed—or simply never came. I’d lived mission to mission too long, just drifting along. And now we stood there, cold, hungry, in front of a stand selling magically warming melons—with almost nothing.

  Vin, who had held back until now, crossed her arms, smiled slightly, and said with a tone that almost annoyed me, even though it was kindly meant: “Don’t worry. I’ll pay for everything if I have to.” I turned to her, eyebrow raised. “How many gold coins do you even have? Ten? Twenty?” She just shrugged. “Less than a troll needs to feel full. But more than enough for the three of us.”

  I sighed. Of course, I had no idea where or how she had worked during her travels. Vin was always so… elusive. Elven druids like her often came from tribes where gold had no value—where people bartered, helped, and shared. I vaguely remembered stories of such places. Villages deep in the forest, where you didn’t need money, just trust. Where the bowmaker gave you arrows if you brought him healing herbs. Where everyone lived hand in hand. But this was Tirros. And outside their green homeland, the world worked differently.

  “Alright,” I murmured at last. “Breakfast on you, then.” Vin grinned, handed the dark elf a silver coin—generous for three melons—and thanked him with a polite nod. The dark elf observed us briefly, then nodded back with a barely noticeable smile. Maybe he’d figured out our situation. Maybe he just didn’t care.

  The melons steamed slightly in our hands - warming as promised - as we sat down on a kind of park bench.

  It was quiet, peaceful, but one thought remained in my mind: there was something wrong with this peace.