The journey to Drakemire spanned two and a half days through winding mountain roads that clung to sheer cliffs like threads of fate. Snow dusted the dark granite paths, while clouds drifted low enough to brush the peaks, cloaking the world in a quiet veil. The wind howled like a restless beast, tugging at cloaks and whispering forgotten names into the travelers' ears.
Ethan rode with his cloak drawn tight against the mountain chill, his breath visible in the air. Beside him, the rest of his team followed in relative silence, their horses' hooves crunching against stone and frost.
He stole a glance upward, marveling at how the mountains seemed to breathe mist and shadow. The peaks loomed like slumbering titans, their faces streaked with veins of glimmering ore, catching the weak sunlight like scars of silver.
On the third day, just past noon, they reached the final ridge—and the world changed.