It was, Alpheo had to admit, a truly beautiful day. The sun was high, casting warm, lazy light across the landscape, and a breeze gentle enough to stir the grass without troubling the trees swayed through the air. For once, the wind didn't carry the scent of fire or iron, the only air that the world seemed to adopt whenever he was around, but instead the crisp clarity of running water, damp moss, and distant pine.
He dismounted with a slow exhale, letting his boots meet the earth with a crunch of dry grass. The ride had been long— two hours, in fact—but not unpleasant. Egil had spent most of it alternating between bad jokes, crude songs, and constant attempts to provoke someone—anyone—into a race.
But since he alone seemed to know their destination, his challenges had gone unanswered.
Now, as the four men stood by a large, winding creek that spilled gently into a mirror-bright lake nestled in a hollow of green, Egil spread his arms wide with a theatrical flourish.
