The caravan groaned out of Veylan City before dawn, wheels creaking, oxen lowing. Alaric hunched in the saddle of his plain grey horse, the cold leather biting through his trousers. Beside him, Lira scanned the thinning outskirts.
Harun rode grim-faced near the lead wagon, driven by the sharp-eyed merchant captain, Elara. The city's spires shrank behind them, swallowed by gloom. Their absence left a hollow in Alaric's chest. Exile wasn't just a place; it was the weight of failure and the silent judgement from the keep's windows pressing down.
"Keep pace!" Elara barked as the last farms gave way to thickening woods. "Daylight's coin north of Kessryn. Stragglers become cautionary tales." Her eyes constantly flicked to the tree line.
The caravan guards – three men, two women, faces etched with wary patience – mirrored her. Hands stayed near weapons. A woman with an iron-grey braid adjusted a worn leather wrist guard, her knuckles scarred.
The world changed as the weak sun climbed. Cultivated fields vanished, replaced by tangled thickets and wild meadows. Farms grew scarce, fortified behind high walls and barred gates. The road narrowed, becoming a rutted track broken by roots and gravel.
The forest loomed – ancient pines and oaks forming a dense canopy overhead, plunging them into cool twilight. The scent of woodsmoke faded, replaced by damp earth and sharp pine. It felt wilder, older.
Alaric watched Harun lean towards Borin, a guard whose face was a roadmap of scars. Their low voices carried on the wind: "...bandits near Whisper Creek... bold... shadow-wolves... pack's grown... weather turns fast up high..." Each word was a stone dropped into the cold pit of Alaric's stomach.
This wasn't story-time danger; it was the daily reality for these people. His reality now.
Lira nudged her horse closer. She'd been quiet, observant. "Different world already," she murmured, nodding towards jagged, moss-covered boulders. "The land remembers less taming here. More itself. Less forgiving."
Alaric grunted, knuckles white on the reins. He felt exposed, useless. The elegant spear forms, they felt like courtly dances here. What good were they against bandits or shadow-wolves? His hand brushed the simple spear strapped to his saddle, Harun's practical choice. It felt heavy, foreign, a symbol of the life he'd lost.
They stopped briefly at midday by a fast stream. The caravaners worked efficiently: watering animals, checking gear, chewing tough bread and jerky.
Alaric crouched by the water, splashing his face. The cold shock cleared his head for a second. His reflection stared back – pale, shadows under his eyes, only the stubborn set of his jaw familiar. Is this the exile's face?
"Eat," Harun commanded, tossing him jerky. His gaze was assessing. "The climb starts soon. Need your strength. Sentiment won't fill your belly or move your feet."
"I'm not wallowing," Alaric retorted, too sharply.
"Didn't say you were," Harun replied evenly. "Stating facts. The North doesn't care about your name or your loss. Only if you're strong enough to take what you need and survive what comes. Your trial started yesterday.
"This," he jerked his chin towards the steep, wooded slope ahead, "is just the proving ground."
Lira handed Alaric a waterskin. "He's right. Save the brooding for solid walls and a locked door. Out here, distraction kills." Her tone wasn't unkind, but firm. Survival was the pact now.
The afternoon brought the climb. The track wound steeply upwards through groaning pines. The air turned bitingly cold.
The caravan slowed, oxen straining. Alaric's thighs burned, his breath plumed. He focused on the rhythm: the horse beneath him, the rough reins, the crunch of gravel. Physical exertion was an anchor against the shame.
Elara dropped back as the track narrowed to single file. "Kessryn Pass," she announced, pointing ahead where trees thinned, revealing a rocky defile between two grim peaks. Grey clouds clung to the summits.
"Threshold to the true North. Cross it, Njothren's shadow falls on you. Weather turns fickle. Game gets scarce or fierce. Things in the high crags and deep woods..." She shook her head, grim respect replacing sharpness. "They don't fear fire like southern beasts. See it as a challenge. Or a beacon."
Nearing the pass, the wind howled through the defile, carrying the scent of snow and wet stone. Alaric looked up at the sheer rock faces.
It felt like entering a giant's maw. He spotted something carved into the rock near the entrance – weathered, almost erased, but unnatural. Jagged lines surrounding a spiral. It radiated a faint, unsettling chill. Not Veylan. Not anything he knew. Ancient. Alien.
Borin noticed his stare. "Old marks," the guard rumbled over the wind. "All over the deep North. No one knows who made 'em. When. Best not dwell. Some say they draw the cold things."
Harun shot Alaric a sharp look. "Eyes forward. The past buried here isn't yours to dig up. Focus on the path."
They pushed the final stretch as light faded, the sky bruising a purple-grey. Emerging from the pass, Alaric's breath caught.
Njothren stretched before them.
Not wilderness. Desolation. Rolling, treeless hills like frozen waves under a vast, oppressive sky. Stunted gorse and grey lichen clung to rocks. Jagged, snow-capped peaks clawed at clouds in the distance, their bases lost in mist-filled valleys.
The air was knife-sharp, carrying the sterile scent of snow and a deeper, bone-chilling cold. Silence pressed down, broken only by the wind's mournful whine across the emptiness. It felt abandoned by warmth, by life itself.
Elara reined in at a shallow depression offering scant shelter. "Camp here! No fires. Cold rations. Double watch." Her voice was tight. The usual bustle vanished, replaced by quiet, efficient movements. Guards scanned the bleak horizon, eyes wary.
Alaric slid stiffly from his horse. He stared at Njothren. The desolation hit him like a blow. No spires. No markets. No halls. Only wind, rock, cold, and unseen watchers. His Veylan name meant nothing. Stripped away, he was just Alaric, the failed heir, standing on the edge of a frozen nowhere.
Lira moved beside him, silent. She offered no comfort, just stood solid against the emptiness, taking in the harsh truth. Harun unpacked bedrolls with grim practicality, the clink of buckles loud in the silence.
The Trial was over. The Fall complete. The real test began now. Alaric squared his shoulders against the biting wind.
A spark, harder than despair, flickered in his chest. He would survive. He had to. Vanish into this frozen silence? Become just another forgotten exile? Not yet. Not while he could still feel the cold, and the stubborn heat of defiance.