Yosul's team rode on the backs of bison, their steady hooves thudding against the dirt road as the morning mist clung stubbornly to the world around them.
Yosul and Erik shared one mount, while Rud and Heisen rode together on another. Kaizer and Leena followed, and Jake and Veinar brought up the rear.
"We'll reach Velhein in about eight hours," Yosul called out over his shoulder.
"Argh… we've been on bison-back for a week. I'm done with this," Heisen groaned, slumping against Rud.
Yosul chuckled. He glanced at Erik. "What about you, Erik? Had enough of traveling yet?"
"Well…" Erik shifted slightly, eyes scanning the fog. "I'm just bored."
"Bored, huh?" Yosul smirked. "Well, if this mist clears up, you'll see something worth remembering."
"See what?"
"You'll see."
The fog was thick, blanketing the road so that only a few feet ahead were visible. Erik's gaze drifted down—and froze. Blue petals gleamed faintly through the mist. Then another. And another. Soon he realized that every step of their path was lined with the flowers.
"These…" Erik murmured. "These are the same ones from the Blue Field, aren't they?"
"Sharp eyes," Yosul said, adjusting his reins. "They're called Silvika flowers."
"Silvika? As in the ancient blood fiend?"
"The very same. Do you know why they bear that name?"
"No."
"Because they only grow where the soil has been soaked in blood."
Erik frowned. "Blood? Then what the hell happened here—"
He broke off, eyes narrowing. A shadow moved through the fog ahead. For an instant it looked like the head of some massive beast, looming silently in the mist. Then the first rays of sunlight pierced through a hollow socket.
It wasn't a head—it was a skull.
As the fog thinned and the light grew, the full shape revealed itself. A colossal serpent's skeleton sprawled across the landscape, each rib jutting upward like the spires of a ruined cathedral. The skull alone towered fifteen feet high, and the spine stretched on and on—long enough to cut a village in half.
Erik stared, breath caught in his throat.
"Cool, isn't it?" Yosul said with a grin.
"I've read about this," Erik whispered. "But I never thought it was real."
"Neither did I," Yosul admitted. "Not until I saw it myself. It's one of the great disasters. They call it God Hand Raython."
"Now that I see it closely…" Erik exhaled. "It really was a Raython. A massive one."
Yosul laughed. "Impressive, right? So—glad you came with us after all?"
"I regretted it at first."
"Oh, really? Heh. I'm just happy you got to see this."
Their journey pressed on, the sun climbing higher. By noon, a small farm village appeared on the horizon.
"Guys!" Yosul shouted, rising slightly in his saddle. He pointed past the village, where white peaks rose against the sky.
"That's Velhein."
Erik lifted his gaze. Though the road stretched across bright green fields, dotted with cows and sheep, the mountains in the distance were shrouded in snow. Their massive shadows spilled across the land, dimming the village beneath.
"It'll get colder from here," Yosul said. "Once we reach the Adventurers' Guild, we'll get new gear for the mountain pass."
As the bison plodded forward, Erik let his eyes wander. Children darted through the fields, chasing each other. Farmers herded their livestock. The wind carried the scent of grass, warm earth, and woodsmoke.
For a fleeting moment, the scene looked like something out of a dream—peaceful, untouched, almost unreal.
As slow as the bison were, they finally reached the village. The beasts stopped before the Adventurers' Guild, and the team wasted no time rushing inside—their standard uniforms were no match for the Velhein's cold.
Yosul spoke briefly with the woman at the counter. Moments later, she led them down a hall, setting Leena into a separate room while the others were directed to another.
"Alright," Yosul said, clapping his hands together. "The bags will have name tags. Find yours first."
Erik went to the pile and checked the first tag—Veinar's. The next bag bore his own name. He carried it into a corner and began to change.
He pulled the cloak tight across his shoulders, its weight settling in like a second skin. The fabric was thick, heavy, built for the Velhein's cold. White as snow, with fur along the edges that faded into ash-gray—it would let him vanish into Velhein's blizzards. The hood hung low, shadowing his face, the trim around it like the mane of a wolf.
Beneath the cloak, the layers fit snug but allowed easy movement: a pale tunic strapped with dark leather, padded at the joints, with a quilted vest reinforced by hidden plates. His boots were thick-soled, ready for the ice.
He checked his belt. His sword hung sheathed at his right hip, the familiar weight grounding him. At his back, a dagger lay horizontally, its handle angled left for a swift draw. No bow. No excess. Just steel he trusted.
For a moment, Erik studied himself—the snow-white cloak, the muted gray fur, the quiet armor meant for movement. It wasn't made to shine or to impress. It was made for a hunter. Made for him.
When he turned, the others were still changing.
Erik slipped outside. The Adventurers' Guild stood at the far end of the village, and from its entrance the whole settlement stretched before him—farms, fences, and homes clustered together beneath the shadow of the Velhein mountains.
He wandered further to a spot where the view opened wide. At the edge, under a weathered tree, an old man sat quietly. Erik almost turned back, but the man noticed him.
They exchanged a nod. The old man shifted, patting the ground beside him.
Erik sat.
"On your way to Velhein, I take it?" the old man asked.
"Yeah," Erik replied.
A few moments passed in silence.
"Quite the view, isn't it?" the old man said.
Erik hummed in agreement. Then, after a pause, "Do you always sit here?"
"Every day," the old man answered.
A child's voice broke the quiet. "Grandpa!"
A young girl ran toward them, clutching a basket. She plopped down beside the old man, pulled out sandwiches, and handed one to him before offering another to Erik.
Erik hesitated.
"Take it," the old man said.
Erik accepted. Cheese, tomatoes, spinach—plain enough. But the first bite melted on his tongue. Warm. Simple. Better than it had any right to be.
"Good, isn't it?" the old man said with a knowing smile.
Erik nodded, still chewing.
"I've lived here since I was a boy," the man went on. "Couldn't have asked for a better life."
So the three of them sat together beneath the tree—man, child, and traveler—watching the village under the winter light.
"Erik!" Yosul's shout carried from a distance.
Erik stood. He turned to go, then looked back at the old man and the girl. Bowing his head, he said softly, "Thank you."
The old man raised his voice so it carried after him. "Safe travels."
Erik walked back toward the waiting crew. The bison stirred, and the road to Velhein lay ahead.