Northrote

Once again, Lennox found himself lost in the familiar haze of a dream. It was a place both foreign and intimate, an ancient hall shrouded in dim light. A massive wooden table sat at its center, surrounded by three figures, each radiating a presence as commanding as the shadows that danced around them.

To the left sat a tall elf with flowing silver hair, his sharp features illuminated by the glow of an ethereal lamp. His emerald robes shimmered faintly, a testament to his status as the Elf King, Eryndor Silvertide. Opposite him sat a burly dwarf with a braided beard and a golden circlet resting atop his head. His stout frame was clad in intricately engraved armor, each piece telling a story of battles long past. He was Durgrim Ironmantle, the proud King of the Dwarves. Between them sat a young human man, his golden hair cascading over a fur-lined cape. He bore an air of authority, though his youthful face betrayed the weight of his burden.

The room crackled with tension as they debated.

"We cannot delay any longer," Alden, the son of Edric, King of Altheria, said firmly. His voice carried a mix of desperation and resolve. "Let us combine our armies and march against the cursed orc warlord. Together, we stand a chance!"

Eryndor's expression remained stoic, his piercing green eyes fixed on Alden. "Even united, our strength pales in comparison to the horde Grask Thorne commands. You underestimate the sheer number of their warriors, young prince."

"Then what do you propose?" Alden demanded, frustration evident in his tone. "To sit idle while they raze our lands and slaughter our people?"

Durgrim leaned forward, his deep voice like rolling thunder. "Perhaps we don't fight their entire army. We cut off the serpent's head. What if we assassinate Grask Thorne himself?"

Alden's gaze snapped to him, his disbelief apparent. "Assassinate him? Even my father, the greatest swordsman in the world, couldn't defeat Grask Thorne in single combat. How could a mere assassin succeed where Edric himself failed?"

Eryndor spoke again, his voice measured. "It is a risky plan, but not without merit. However, it would require someone with unparalleled skill and power to even approach Grask Thorne unnoticed."

"Such a person doesn't exist," Alden said bitterly, slamming his hand on the table.

"Perhaps they do," Durgrim said, stroking his braided beard thoughtfully. "If not one of us, then someone outside our kingdoms. What about the wizards?"

The room fell silent for a moment.

Alden frowned, his blue eyes narrowing. "Wizards? They rarely involve themselves in the affairs of mortals. Which one would help us?"

Eryndor's lips curved into a slight smile, a glimmer of hope flickering in his gaze. "The Wizard of Earth."

Alden's expression hardened. "Him? Are you certain? His methods are… unpredictable, and his loyalty is questionable at best."

"I am certain," Eryndor replied, his voice unwavering. "If anyone possesses the knowledge and power to kill Grask Thorne, it is him."

Durgrim hesitated, then nodded slowly. "He's dangerous, but desperate times call for desperate measures."

Before Alden could respond, the scene began to blur, the figures dissolving into a swirl of light and shadow.

Lennox awoke with a start, his heart racing. The vivid images of the dream lingered in his mind, Eryndor's calm wisdom, Durgrim's boldness, and Alden's fiery determination.

The name "Grask Thorne" echoed in his thoughts, a name that seemed to carry with it an ominous weight.

"Hey kid, wake up already lets go, the storm already stop" said Roger

Then they continue the journey

The air grew colder with each step as the group descended from the mountain pass into a seemingly endless expanse of white. The snow plains stretched out in all directions, a desolate and unforgiving wasteland. The biting wind howled across the plains, carrying with it an icy chill that seeped through every layer of clothing.

Lennox pulled his borrowed black robe tighter around himself, the tattered garment offering little protection against the elements. The faint warmth of the runes on his arms helped stave off the worst of the cold, but the others weren't as fortunate.

"Remind me again why we couldn't just stay in that nice, warm cave," Roger said, his voice muffled by the scarf wrapped around his face. His footsteps crunched loudly in the snow, his exaggerated movements betraying his frustration.

"Because we don't have enough supplies to last another day," Julien replied curtly, leading the group across the frozen expanse.

"Supplies, schmupplies," Roger muttered. "I'd rather starve warm than freeze to death out here."

"Noted," Marcus said with a smirk. "We'll make sure to carve that on your tombstone."

Roger shot him a glare. "You're hilarious, Marcus. Truly, a master of wit."

Lennox chuckled softly at their banter, the lighthearted exchange momentarily distracting him from the relentless cold.

The snow crunched underfoot as they trudged onward, the barren landscape offering little in the way of landmarks. The horizon blurred where the white plains met the pale sky, creating an eerie, otherworldly atmosphere.

"How far are we from Northrote?" Lennox asked, his voice breaking the silence.

"Not far now," Julien replied, his eyes scanning the horizon. "We should see the city by nightfall if we keep this pace."

"Thank the gods," Roger said, dramatically throwing his hands up. "I swear, if I don't get a hot meal and a warm bed soon, I'm going to—"

"You're going to what?" Marcus interrupted, raising an eyebrow.

"Complain loudly and make everyone miserable," Roger said without missing a beat.

"Sounds about right," Lennox said, earning a round of laughter from the group.

Despite the harsh conditions, the camaraderie between the four of them made the journey more bearable. Even Julien, who usually maintained a stoic demeanor, seemed more relaxed as they bantered and traded lighthearted jabs.

---

As the day wore on, the wind began to pick up, carrying with it a fine spray of snow that reduced visibility even further. The group pressed on, their heads bowed against the gale.

"We need to find shelter," Julien said, his voice barely audible over the howling wind. "The storm's getting worse."

"Shelter?" Roger said, his words barely intelligible through chattering teeth. "Where, exactly? There's nothing out here but snow and ice!"

"Keep your eyes open," Julien said, his tone firm.

They trudged onward, the wind cutting through their layers of clothing like a blade. Lennox's fingers were numb despite being tucked into his sleeves, and his legs felt like lead as he waded through the deep snow.

Just as despair began to set in, Marcus pointed ahead. "There! A ridge!"

The faint outline of a rocky outcrop loomed in the distance, its jagged edges standing out against the white expanse. Julien nodded and quickened his pace, leading the group toward the potential refuge.

When they reached the ridge, they found a shallow overhang that provided some shelter from the wind. It wasn't much, but it was enough to give them a momentary reprieve.

Julien crouched down, using his cloak to shield a small bundle of kindling from the wind as he struck a flint. After several attempts, a small flame sprang to life, and the group huddled around it, grateful for the meager warmth.

Roger held his hands out to the fire, sighing dramatically. "Remind me to write a strongly worded letter to whoever's in charge of weather around here."

"Your survival instincts are truly remarkable," Marcus said dryly.

Roger grinned. "I like to think I bring a little levity to our otherwise grim and perilous existence."

Julien shook his head but didn't bother to comment. Instead, he turned to Lennox. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm fine," Lennox replied, though his body ached from the cold and exertion.

"You're tougher than you look," Julien said with a faint smile.

"Thanks… I think," Lennox said, unsure whether it was a compliment or not.

---

After a brief rest, the group resumed their journey. The storm began to subside, the wind dying down to a whisper as the sun dipped lower in the sky.

As they crested a gentle rise, Julien stopped abruptly, his eyes fixed on the horizon. "There," he said, pointing.

Lennox followed his gaze and felt his breath catch. In the distance, illuminated by the fading sunlight, stood Northrote City.

The massive stone walls encircling the city glistened with frost, their imposing height a testament to the city's strength. The emblem of a silver wolf howling under a crescent moon was etched into the gates, which were flanked by towering watchtowers. Beyond the walls, faint plumes of smoke rose into the sky, hinting at the warmth and life within.

"That's Northrote?" Lennox asked, his voice tinged with awe.

"It is," Julien said, his tone filled with pride.

As they approached the gates, the guards straightened at the sight of them. One of the men, a burly figure with a thick beard, broke into a grin. "Lord Julien! You're back!"

Lennox blinked, taken aback. "They know you?"

Julien didn't answer, striding forward with a nod to the guards.

The gates swung open, and the group was greeted by a knights clad in gleaming silver armor. They bowed deeply as Julien approached.

"Welcome home, my lord," one of the knights said.

Lennox stared at Julien, his jaw slack. "Wait… what?"

Roger chuckled. "Surprise!"

Julien turned to Lennox, his expression calm but unreadable. "I should have mentioned. I'm the heir to Duke Northrote."

"You didn't think that was important to tell me?" Lennox asked.

Julien smirked. "Didn't seem relevant at the time."

Before Lennox could respond, the knights stepped aside, clearing a path for them to enter the city.

"Come on," Julien said, his tone suddenly serious. "There's a lot to discuss."

As they stepped through the gates and into the bustling streets of Northrote, Lennox couldn't shake the feeling that his journey was only just beginning.