Elaria Silverstan's Arc

Chapter 1 of 22

Elaria pulled her cloak tight and stepped past the last fencepost of the village. The wind bit at her cheeks, but her blood did not flinch. Somewhere beyond the white hills waited the glacier, and inside it, the warmth crystal her dying kingdom needed. She had only rumors to guide her. Whispers from old men. Half-drawn maps on tavern napkins. It was not enough, and she knew it. Still, she walked. The cost of staying was already counted in the frozen fields behind her. She turned back once, toward the small pub at the village edge. Its windows glowed orange. Inside, she had bought cups of cocoa for any traveler who would speak. Most lied. A few traded scraps of truth for warmth. She had stitched their words together like a torn shirt, but the seams did not hold. From her satchel she drew the folded map. It had belonged to the man who came back wrong. He had left it on his windowsill before he died. The runes along its edges shifted when she breathed on the parchment. She traced a faded line northward, past markings no living tongue could read. She walked until the snow swallowed the path. There, jutting from the drift, stood a tall stone marker carved with symbols and a single open eye. Beyond it, the map showed nothing. No line. No rune. Only blank, yellowed paper. Elaria lowered the map. The rumors ended here. Whatever lay ahead, she would have to find alone.