After nearly two months of relentless ice storms, the merchant finally asked to speak with me about our journey ahead—specifically, our route to Dragon Wing.
"The plan is to head southeast from here," she said, unfurling a worn but well-crafted map across the snow-dusted table between us. "We'll pass through the East Gate and follow the old road toward Devaner's Crossing. Once we reach that bridge, it's crucial we can trust each other completely. No secrets, no doubts."
I leaned in to examine the map. It was hand-drawn, surprisingly detailed, and clearly the result of years of travel. Still, I noticed it lacked some locations I had marked during my own wanderings.
"I have a few places on my map that you've missed—like the ruins I found last month," I said, rummaging through my pack. I retrieved my makeshift parchment, weather-worn and stained at the edges, and handed it over.
Without a word, she took my map, cross-referenced it with hers, and began sketching the ruins into her version. Her handwriting was tight and deliberate, like someone used to taking careful notes under stress. After a few moments, she looked up at me.
"That's it? Only one set of ruins?"
I nodded. "Yes. That's all I could manage to explore, given... well, the condition I was in."
She let out a long, disappointed sigh and rubbed her forehead. "Right. Anyway," she said, regaining her focus, "do you remember the travel plan we discussed over dinner last night?"
I tried to recall the conversation, but all I could remember was the stew—thick, spiced just right, and warm enough to make me forget the cold outside for a few precious minutes.
"Sorry," I admitted. "That chili you made was incredible. I must've been too focused on the food to take in the details."
Another sigh. This one wasn't disappointed so much as resigned.
"You really need to pay better attention," she muttered, though her tone lacked real malice. "This crossing isn't like the others. The storms tear at the cliffs, the wind howls like it wants to take your soul, and the ice hides more than just broken ground. If we get separated, or if one of us slips up, we might not get another chance."
I nodded solemnly, finally taking in the weight of her concern.
"Alright," I said. "Let's go over the plan again. I'm listening this time."
She glanced at me, her expression softening just a little, before reaching for a piece of charcoal and tapping the map.
"Okay, listen. If you forget one more time, I swear I'll stop feeding you anything even close to well-made," the merchant snapped, rising to her feet with sudden force. Her long cloak swayed as she pointed sharply down at me. The mask she always wore—smooth, pale ivory with subtle carvings—offered no expression, but her voice was a thundercloud.
I lifted my hands halfway, showing surrender. "Alright. I'm listening."
She sighed and lowered herself back down onto the flat rock beside the fire. From her satchel, she pulled a small slip of parchment and dipped a quill into a bottle of red ink. A gold coin was set onto the map with a soft clink.
"We're here—center of the Snow Circle," she began, all business now. "First stop: Ruins of the Old Dwarven Forge. Rest for a day or two. While we're there, we upgrade your gear—weapon, armor, whatever we can find."
I nodded. I didn't argue. She was right—my current sword felt like a glorified icicle.
She traced an invisible path across the parchment with her finger. "Second stop: The Tree of the Past Age. Three to five days there. The goal is the hidden library. With luck, we'll find spellbooks, records, maybe something worth trading."
Then to the next location: a star-shaped mark near the bottom edge.
"Third stop: Monument of the Sage of the Stars. The barrier there still holds. It's safe enough for one, maybe two nights."
Finally, her finger landed on the last location.
"After that, Devaner's Crossing. No stops. No distractions. That bridge is dangerous even in the best weather—and the storms haven't let up in weeks."
A spark of recognition lit in my mind. "Right. You mentioned it yesterday, over the stew. You said the winds could blow someone straight off the edge."
She gave a slight tilt of the head, just enough for the firelight to catch her mask. A flicker of approval, maybe. Or mild surprise.
"At least something stuck," she said flatly.
She didn't mark the map. Instead, she finished writing on the parchment in front of her, let it dry for a moment, then folded it crisply and handed it to me.
I took it in both hands, unfolding it just long enough to read the neat red script:
Travel Plan
Start: Center of the Snow Circle
Stop 1: Ruins of the Old Dwarven Forge — Rest 1–2 days, resupply, rearm
Stop 2: Tree of the Past Age — Rest 3–5 days, locate hidden library
Stop 3: Monument of the Sage of the Stars — Camp 1–2 days
Final: Devaner's Crossing — Proceed with caution
I folded it again, more carefully this time, and slid it into the inner pocket of my pants—stitched there weeks ago with spare thread and stubborn fingers. Close to the skin. Closer to memory.
If I lost everything else, I'd still have this. No excuses.
"I'll remember this time," I said quietly, patting the pocket once.
She didn't look at me, just packed up her ink and quill and stood again.
"You'd better," she said. "Because if you lose that paper, it's boiled roots and snow soup until we reach Dragon Wing."
The fire snapped behind her as the wind kicked up. "Tomarrow we will star walking, the storm should end mid day pack your things in this" she reached in to her masve backpack and through out a poorly crafted smaller one twords me. "Thank you" I responed.