That night, Draven wasn't searching for answers. He was searching for silence.
He stepped into his father's forge—a place that had once birthed legendary blades, and now birthed only ghosts. The air still carried the scent of iron and ash. As he searched for oil to tend his sword, he shoved aside a heavy blacksmith's table that hadn't been moved in months. Dust rose in a tired cloud.
Behind it, hidden in a narrow crack in the stone wall, he found a small wooden box. Its edges were splintered and worn smooth by time.
No name.
No crest.
No sentimental inscription.
Inside lay a folded sheet of goatskin parchment.
Strangely, despite years spent beside roaring furnaces, the parchment felt cold in his hands.
It was addressed to Darien Ardent.
Dated long before Draven was born.
He unfolded it.
The handwriting was sharp. Precise. Controlled.
To Darien,
Your mission with us has ended. The blades you forged have finally cooled. But we both know the Spark you carry does not die easily.
If the fire in your blood begins to consume you… if the Pulse returns to knock against your chest… you know the path back.
The Shivercrest Mountains do not forget their allies.
Do not return seeking gold.
Return seeking the ice that tames the blood.
Below the message was a seal:
Two crossed blades submerged in frozen water.
Draven's heartbeat faltered.
His gaze dropped to his own arm—black veins branching beneath his skin like spreading cracks in glass.
Then back to the letter.
"So… what is your true story, Father?" he whispered.
His voice barely carried.
"You were one of them… weren't you?"
A realization struck him harder than any blade.
The letter had never been meant for him.
Darien had written it as a reminder. A return path.
But Draven would steal that path.
The Blood Heresy coiling through his veins left him little choice.
He wasn't invited.
He wouldn't be welcomed.
But somewhere in those mountains lay the only thread between him and death.
He folded the letter with deliberate care and slipped it into his coat.
Outside, the wind began to rise.
It howled across the rooftops like a distant summons.
And for the first time, Draven felt that the north was not just a place on a map—
It was calling.