Volgrir tuned his lute in the corner of the tavern, his horns scraping the low ceiling beam. He'd traveled the Hidden Realm for three years, singing tales that made men weep and warriors cheer. But every song felt incomplete. The legendary mead of the ancients could unlock true inspiration—the kind that turned a good bard into an immortal one. Tomorrow, he would leave for the northern wastes where the mead was rumored to sleep in forgotten vaults. Tonight, though, he needed to test his skills one final time. Volgrir hauled his copper pyrophone from its leather case and set it on the worn tavern stage. The instrument's pipes gleamed in the firelight, its intricate design drawing curious stares from the crowd. He struck a flame and fed it into the metal tubes. Music burst forth—bright, piercing notes that filled the room. Faces turned toward him. Feet began to tap. He sang of heroes and lost kingdoms, watching the patrons lean closer with each verse. When the final note faded, they roared their approval. Volgrir bowed and packed his instrument away. The northern wastes would test him harder than any crowd, but he was ready. The mead would be his, and with it, the greatest song ever sung. After dawn, Volgrir stood at the edge of town with his pack heavy on his shoulders. He pulled out a dark stone covered in strange symbols he'd bought from a traveling merchant. The man claimed it held clues about the mead's location, written in an old demon tongue. Volgrir traced the carved lines with his finger, studying each mark. Some symbols looked like mountains. Others resembled fire or ice. He couldn't read it all yet, but the northern wastes were three days away. That gave him time to learn what the stone was trying to tell him. He wrapped it carefully and tucked it into his pack. The road stretched ahead, empty and waiting. By nightfall, Volgrir had deciphered enough of the cipher stone to know where his journey would end. The symbols spoke of a hall built by demons long ago, hidden deep in the wastes. The mead rested there, guarded and forgotten. But the stone revealed something else—the hall was meant for performances. Red sigils marked its walls. Flames burned in ancient sconces. It was a place where songs were meant to echo through time. Volgrir closed his eyes and imagined standing in that dark hall, his voice carrying his masterpiece through chambers that hadn't heard music in centuries. That was where he would perform it—not in some crowded tavern, but in the place the mead had always called home. He tucked the stone away and kept walking into the cold northern wind.

Volgrir reached the edge of the northern wastes as frozen wind cut across his face. Snow stretched ahead in every direction, unmarked and silent. He pulled the cipher stone from his pack and studied the symbols again. The demon hall lay somewhere in this emptiness, but the stone only showed him what to look for—not how far he'd have to walk. He traced the mountain symbol with his thumb, then looked up at the white horizon. This was where the real journey began. No more taverns. No more warm fires. Just cold, silence, and the promise of the mead waiting in the dark. He needed to learn more before venturing deeper into the waste. The cipher stone pointed him toward a trading post two miles east, built into a cliff face where merchants stored goods bound for the frozen territories. Inside, past crates of salted meat and wool blankets, he found what he sought. A ledger sat on a back shelf, its cover dark with ornate engravings that seemed to shift in the lamplight. The merchant watched him nervously as he opened it. Page after page detailed ancient recipes and brewing methods from centuries past. One entry described a mead made with demon's honey and winter starflowers—ingredients that matched the symbols on his cipher stone. Volgrir copied the details onto a piece of parchment, his hands steady despite the cold. Now he knew what he was searching for. Now he could begin the hunt in earnest. Back outside the trading post, Volgrir spotted something else half-buried in snow near the supply sheds. A distillery made of dark metal caught the pale light, its surface covered in symbols that glowed faintly. He brushed ice from its pipes and chambers. The merchant said it had been left by a traveler who never returned from the wastes. Volgrir studied its design—complex but functional, built for brewing in harsh conditions. He could use this to test the recipe from the ledger before he ventured to the demon hall. If he learned to brew the mead himself, he'd understand its power before he performed with it. He loaded the distillery onto a sled the merchant provided and began dragging it north. The wind howled across the snow, but Volgrir kept moving. He had the recipe. He had the tools. Now he would master the craft itself. Three hours later, he found a shack tucked against a rocky outcrop. Its wooden beams twisted at odd angles, and strange carvings covered the door frame. Inside was empty except for dust and frozen spider webs. Perfect. He could store his equipment here while he searched for ingredients. Volgrir set down the distillery and went back for the sled. He carried in his supplies and stacked them against the wall. The shack would serve as his base—a place to return to when he gathered what he needed. He stepped outside and looked across the frozen waste. Somewhere out there grew winter starflowers. Somewhere, demon's honey waited in hidden hives. The first step was knowledge. The second was preparation. Now came the third: finding what the recipe demanded.