The wind had shifted by mid-morning, carrying the bite of frost over the ridges, slicing across the thin air like a knife. Thalen rode at the head of a small company, a handful of men from the Mountain Watch following close behind. Captain Rorik stayed at his side, silent, eyes scanning every crag, every shadow, as though the mountains themselves might rise to strike.
Thalen adjusted the weight of his cloak and spat into the snow.
"I should've brought more men," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else.
The vast whiteness stretched beyond sight, jagged ridges and plunging drops that could swallow a man whole if he misstepped. Yet despite the danger, his pulse thrummed with a thrill he did not fully understand. This was what it meant to be a Warden—or at least to begin becoming one.
"Do not hurry," Rorik said, voice low but firm.
"The mountain will not be impressed by speed. Patience is your ally here, boy."
Thalen's jaw tightened. "Patience," he echoed, letting the word roll off his tongue like bitter iron.
He had patience enough for a court, for a feast, for boredom—but for these mountains, he would have to earn it.
It was then that the ridge ahead shifted. Figures moved among the white haze, low against the wind, a small caravan creeping through the pass. At first, Thalen laughed softly to himself.
Finally, he thought.
A chance for some action. A fight, maybe, a test for the Warden I am to be.
Rorik did not laugh. He only raised a hand, signaling the men to halt.
"Not all that moves needs blood spilled," he said.
"Watch and learn."
As they drew closer, the caravan came into view: six or seven figures trailing horses laden with cargo. Two led the front, their heads covered, garments deep wine in color, sleeves loose and flowing.
Thalen stiffened. Merchants? Travelers? Bandits hiding behind silk?
The lead rider stopped abruptly, reins taut. He studied the Greyharth banner flapping in the wind and froze. Even the horses seemed wary, stamping and snorting in the snow.
"See?" Rorik said quietly.
"Not all who ride blind through the mountains are fools. Some have sense."
Thalen's grin was sharp but short-lived. Deep down, a tension coiled in his chest."And yet," he murmured, "I thought I smelled a real fight. A test of steel."
Rorik's eyes flicked to him, cold and even. "Steel is the last test here, Warden. First, we learn who stands before us."
Captain Rorik rode forward, the crisp snow crunching beneath his horse's hooves. The two front riders bowed slightly, faces still hidden under hoods, but their hands rested lightly on reins, not weapons.
"State your business," Rorik called, voice carrying over the wind.
The lead rider lifted his head, revealing a sharp, pale face, eyes alert and calm.
"We come from the east," he said, voice smooth, deliberate.
"Bound for the Southern markets. No ill will intended, Ser."
Thalen's pulse quickened. He whispered to Rorik, almost too softly. "What if they're slave traders, hiding behind these robes?"
Rorik's lips twitched, but he did not smile.
"If they carried slaves," he said, tone sharp, "do you think they'd let the women wear robes of this silk? No, boy. Look closer. Look at their faces. Their carriage. We judge by the man, not the rumor."
Thalen exhaled slowly, embarrassment warming his cheeks.
Perhaps I am too eager to spill blood…
The Warden rode alongside Rorik as the inspection began. The caravan halted fully now, the remaining riders adjusting their packs, and the soft sway of silk robes became more apparent. Among the travelers were women, several in the same deep wine color, heads held high, voices polite yet tinged with fatigue. They carried small boxes, bundles, and trunks, each item showing signs of a long ride.
Rorik dismounted carefully, boots crunching in the frost. "Come forward," he said, addressing the front riders.
"We do not bar trade through these passes, but we guard the way. State your names, your origin, and your purpose."
One of the riders, the pale man, inclined his head slightly.
"I am Rin, and this is my Sister Sybilla. We travel from Albareen, carrying goods bound for the southern markets. Nothing more."
Thalen studied them closely. Their eyes did not flicker with deceit. The silk and the care with which their goods were handled spoke of wealth, not cruelty. Yet still, he could not quiet the niggling suspicion of the mountains themselves.
"You ride far," Rorik said, voice even. "Few venture so long in winter without reason."
Rin's gaze did not waver. "We traveled for commerce and safety. The northern passes are harsh, but we knew the Greyharth Watch held the path."
Thalen shifted uneasily. He wanted to laugh at his own nerves, but the mountains pressed on all sides, cold and indifferent. Even as the caravan settled, the wind whispered around them, hollow and low, as if warning him that not all threats wore coarse hides and crude steel.
"Unload the goods," Rorik ordered. "We inspect for safety. The way is long and treacherous."
Silence fell as the boxes and bundles were brought down, the women assisting with care. Thalen rode along, eyes narrowing on the contents: fine silks, jars of preserved fruits, tools, and small ornaments. Nothing of malice, nothing of threat.
Thalen watched them unload their goods, but suspicion lingered like a frost in his chest. He reined his horse forward slightly, squinting at the pale rider at the front.
"You," Thalen said, voice low but firm.
"The one leading. Tell me something—why risk the northern passes? Why come all the way from the east? You could have landed near a southern port, taken the warmer roads, safer paths. And yet here you are… beneath the Frosthorns, where the wind can kill a man as easily as a blade."
Rin stiffened. For a moment, his fingers brushed the hilt at his belt, and Thalen's pulse jumped.
A sword? Or a trick? His hand twitched toward his own. But instead, Varin scrabbled in the folds of his robes, fumbling, and finally produced a tightly rolled scroll.
"I… almost forgot this," Rin said, voice calm but clipped, as he handed the parchment to Thalen. The leather strap snapped slightly in the wind.
Thalen caught it, fingers brushing against the scroll. Relief and frustration mingled.
Not a blade… but still suspicious. He unrolled the parchment carefully. The wax seal bore the mark of the Mountain Hollow—the symbol of Wulfric's authority.
"Approved by the Warden of the Hollow," Thalen muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing.
If this came from Wulfric… I'm overthinking it. But still… He couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to these men than met the eye.
He turned back to Rin. "Still. The journey—why take it here? The sea routes, the southern ports—they are warmer. Safer. Faster. You risk frostbite, snow, avalanches. Why the northern passes?"
Rin exchanged a glance with his sister, Sybilla, before speaking. "We… had no choice. The southern ports are watched by more than customs and guards. Politics, taxes, delays. The road south is crowded with traders who cannot be trusted. Here, in the passes, we move quietly, avoiding… unwanted attention. The mountains are dangerous, yes. But danger has its price, and speed has its value."
Thalen blinked, caught off guard by the reasoning. The man spoke plainly, without arrogance, without flinching beneath the scrutiny of a Greyharth. The logic stung his pride slightly; he had imagined deceit, traps, and hidden steel, not careful pragmatism.
Rorik, who had remained silent, let out a low whistle.
"The boy might still doubt, but you see why men make their own paths," he said quietly to Thalen.
"Danger is counted, not feared. And sometimes, risk is the safest road."
Thalen exhaled, letting his gaze wander to the distant ridges. Still… something about them doesn't sit right. I cannot help but doubt.
He glanced down at the caravan, at the careful handling of the silk and boxes, at the pale faces of the travelers, and muttered under his breath: "Perhaps the mountains whisper to me still. Perhaps even trusted papers cannot quiet them."
Rin straightened, noticing the movement. "We mean no harm, Warden," he said. "We only seek passage. The mountains, and the Watch, keep us safe as much as they keep the road clear. That is all we ask."
Thalen studied him, measuring each word, each flicker of expression. And slowly, almost reluctantly, he nodded. "Very well. You may pass. But know this: the Greyharth Watch does not forgive easily. And the mountains… they remember every step."
Rin inclined his head. "We understand, Warden."
"See?" Rorik said quietly, as if answering Thalen's unspoken doubts. "Not all who ride the mountains bear steel. Some carry wealth, some carry news, some carry neither. And all must be judged in their own right."
Thalen nodded slowly, a flicker of humility crossing his features. "And the mountains?" he muttered. "Do they judge us too?"
Rorik's gaze swept the ridges, shadows moving like slow specters across the snow. "They do," he said. "Every day, every night. And those who fail the mountains… do not last long enough to answer."
For the first time, Thalen felt the weight of his title pressing on him fully. He was not merely a lord's son riding through a keep. He was a Warden of the Mountain Watch. And every decision, every glance, every gesture mattered.
The caravan settled, the inspection concluded without incident. Rin bowed, Sybilla's smile polite but tired. "We thank you for your vigilance, Warden," Rin said.
Rorik inclined his head. "Ride safely. The Frosthorns watch all who travel here."
As the caravan moved on, Thalen remained mounted, hands resting on the hilt of his sword, gaze lingering on the receding figures. Deep in the mountains, the wind whispered, carrying with it a sense of both relief and unease.
Thalen exhaled through his nose, feeling the frost bite his cheeks. "Lucky bastard," he muttered to himself. "They rode free, and I am still stuck in stone and cold."
Rorik chuckled softly. "You'll see freedom, boy. One day. But first, you must master the watch. Patience, observation… and humility."
Thalen's jaw tightened, but he could not deny the truth in Rorik's words. The mountains did not care for pride. They cared only for those who survived them.
And survive, he would.