After ten long days winding through forests, plains, and rough and dusty roads, the caravan finally rolled into Calma beneath the golden wash of early afternoon sunlight.
It was March, and there was no trace of chill that lingered in the breeze. The quiet town stirred with signs of summer—lush leaves and branches, merchants hawking wares, and the scent of warmed earth.
The caravan, a patchwork of merchant wagons, armored escorts, and a single lacquered carriage bearing the Norse mother and daughter, clattered toward Narra Alley—a quieter street tucked behind the bustling market district. One by one, ten carriages pulled to a stop before an ornate wrought-iron gate. A sign made from hard wood arched above it, carved with the familiar words:
"House of Mendel."