The valley opened before them, narrow and deep. Mist rose from the stream below, thick enough that Vencian could barely see ahead. The water moved slowly around dark rocks, half-frozen in places.
Pine trees lined the slopes, heavy with snow. They flickered in and out of view through the drifting fog. The path followed the water's edge, winding between ice and stone.
Day two, Vencian thought, calculating the distance still ahead. Forty miles to Saint Aldric's—would've been nothing in good weather. But these horses can barely manage a crawl in the snow. He squinted through the mist, watching the light already beginning to fade though it felt like midday. Winter days died young in these mountains.
Vencian glanced at his two companions. Larik and Talor, who'd served the family for years. Talor was in the front, leading the group. While Vencian was in the middle and Larik was at the back.
Vencian pulled his cloak tighter. Icy wind slipped through every seam, creeping down his collar and up his sleeves.
I shouldn't have underestimated the pain of travelling long in cold winter. Especially in this day and age, Vencian thought.
At times like these Vencian realized how ungrateful he was towards the modern convenience in his world. You only miss the sun when it starts to snow...
He lifted his head slightly upward, his hood fell backward in motion revealing his fur hat. Dark clouds were covering the sky. The irony was not lost on him.
sigh
If Luke had ever dreamed of being transported to another world, reality fell far short of his imagination. This place possessed none of the wonders he'd expected from fantasy stories. No floating cities pierced the clouds, no magical gateways offered instant travel, no other races like elves or dwarfs.
The world around him felt closer to Earth's late Renaissance period - primitive yet familiar in its limitations. Magic, if it existed at all, remained frustratingly absent from daily life.
Still, this world was not without traces of the supernatural. Rare occurrences, but undeniable — such as the self-aware tower, 'Qesil Migdol,' or the 'Arksprens,' greatest weapons of every realm.
Vencian flexed his fingers around the horse's reins. His wounded hand ached faintly but seemed to be healing well.
But damn. Couldn't the real Vencian have used a different method to draw out his blood? Such a painful and dramatic way he chose to get his blood. Just like in those TV shows. Do they even know how many nerves are in the palms? In the worst case, it can disable you for your whole life.
The horses snorted and stamped, their breath creating small clouds in the frigid air. For several minutes, only the soft crunch of hooves on snow and the distant murmur of the half-frozen stream broke the silence.
"Emswich Valley... My grandfather always said this region was cursed," Larik said, shifting uncomfortably in his saddle as his horse picked its way around a sheet of ice. "You think there's truth to-"
"Your grandfather," Talor growled without looking back, adjusting his grip on the reins, "probably said a lot of things. Most of them while three cups deep in ale."
Larik chuckled, the sound echoing strangely in the mist. "Now, don't say that. He was a more learned man than you, at least. He even fought in the Airantis-Sedron war 30 years ago."
"Yeah, well the war turned him into a bitter old fool who jumped at his own shadow," Talor said flatly.
"Tsk. That's why you don't have friends, Talor"
"I do have friends. Two of them"
Larik raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "Oh really? And who might these mysterious friends be?"
"Well..." Talor hesitated, suddenly looking less confident. "They're very close. Known each other for years."
"Are they perhaps married to each other?" Larik asked with growing suspicion.
"How do you know that?" Talor's voice grew defensive.
Vencian watched this exchange with growing amusement, already sensing where it was headed.
"Oh, I got news for you dear Talor," Larik said with a grin. "Your parents don't count as friends."
At that, Vencian tried to suppress a chuckle.
Talor's face darkened, ready to deliver a cutting retort, but Vencian cleared his throat and guided his horse between them. "Alright, enough you two. Larik, since you brought up your grandfather's stories, why don't you tell us what makes this place cursed? Might help pass the time."
Larik and Talor were two soldiers with whom original Vencian got along well. Larik was the son of Vencian's swordmaster. Talor, a few years older, had also been knighted by Vencian's father.
Larik shifted in his saddle, pulling his reins tighter as his horse stepped carefully around a patch of ice. "Well, it's not really cursed cursed, you know? Just... unlucky." He glanced around at the mist-shrouded pines. "Grandpa used to tell this story about Captain Morrow - some cavalry officer from way back during the Airantis-Sedron war."
"Here we go," Talor muttered, rolling his eyes skyward.
"Shut up, let me finish. So this Captain Morrow, right? He's chasing some enemy company through this exact valley with about thirty of his men. Spring floods, mist thick as porridge, the whole dramatic setup." Larik waved his hand vaguely at the fog around them, nearly losing his balance before steadying himself. "A scout on the ridge watches them ride down here and disappear into all this."
Vencian found himself listening despite the cold. There was something oddly compelling about hearing ghost stories while actually riding through the supposedly haunted location.
"Hours pass, nothing happens. Then the scout sees them again - same thirty riders, perfect formation, coming back up the path. But when they reach the valley mouth..." Larik paused for effect, leaning forward in his saddle. "They just fade away. Like smoke."
"Riveting," Talor said dryly, brushing snow from his cloak.
"The best part is when they went to look for them, all they found were hoofprints leading straight into the stream. No bodies, no equipment, nothing. Just prints that ended at the water like they'd ridden right in and kept going underwater."
Vencian glanced down at the dark stream beside their path. Well, that's not ominous at all.
"Your grandfather actually believed that?" Vencian asked with a wry grimace.
"Oh, he swore by it. Said you could still see two riders in the mist sometimes, just sitting there waiting. Called them Morrow's advance guard." Larik grinned. "Course, Grandpa also claimed he once wrestled a bear with his bare hands, so take that as you will."
Luke, if he were still on Earth, would have dismissed such rumours without a second thought. But now? He couldn't forget that he hadn't chosen to come to this world. A supernatural event of the highest degree, in his book. If such a thing could happen, then ghost stories seemed entirely possible.
Then there were the occasional chills he'd been getting since waking in this world. Not the winter chills, but something different - something eerie, like the feeling of being watched. He'd tried to dismiss it many times, but to no avail.
He suddenly started feeling uncomfortable in this misty environment.
"Don't tell me you're scared, young master. You're making a weird face," Larik said as he nudged his horse and caught up to Vencian.
Vencian first berated himself for showing such an expression, then shot back, "Shut up, Larik. My arse is just getting sore from sitting on this damn saddle for so long. I just hope the monastery shows itself already."
"Haha. Not long now, my lord. The monastery's just ahead."