Far to the north, nestled in a jagged cradle of frost-bitten peaks and haunted winds, lies a forgotten valley. Maps pretend it doesn't exist, and most people are happy to go along with that delusion. It's not the kind of place you visit on purpose. Snow never stops falling there, the wind howls with a personal grudge, and even the crows know better than to linger.
Black Wind Vale. Sounds fancy, right? Like something out of an old ballad. It isn't. It's cold, desolate, and as far from cozy civilization as one could possibly get without digging a hole to the underworld.
We arrived at the edge of it around midday—not that you could tell. The sky was a murky gray, thick with snow that drifted sideways instead of down. Arno, ever the stoic guide, didn't say much. He just kept walking like the cold didn't matter and the assassination attempt from earlier wasn't still fresh in our minds. I followed him, mostly because turning back would've been even dumber than coming here in the first place.
We were met at the entrance by a tall, broad-shouldered man in a fur cloak. He looked about as enthusiastic as someone forced to lead a tour during a blizzard.
"You the one bringing the Caspian boy?" he asked Arno.
"Yes," Arno said. "This is Lysander."
"Great." The man turned and started walking. "Elder Thorn's waiting. Don't touch anything."
What a warm welcome. Really made a guy feel at home.
The place itself was less of a village and more like a crumbling fortress carved into the rock. Thick walls, old wooden gates reinforced with metal, and stone halls that groaned with age. It was like someone had taken a monastery, forgotten about it for two centuries, then decided to move back in without bothering to clean up first.
We passed a few other people—mostly older men and women in layered robes, a few younger ones carrying buckets or shoveling snow. Nobody smiled. Nobody said hello. Cozy, right?
Inside, the halls were lit by dull lanterns that flickered in protest. We were led through narrow corridors and down a set of stairs that seemed designed to twist ankles. Finally, we entered a room that looked more like a gardener's shed than the audience chamber of some ancient elder.
Elder Thorn wasn't what I expected. No glowing eyes, no floating staff, no mysterious aura. Just a tired-looking old man sitting in a wooden chair, wearing thick gloves and boots. His white beard was more tangled than majestic, and he was sipping something from a chipped mug.
"So you're the boy," Thorn said. "You're shorter than I imagined."
I blinked. "Thanks?"
"Don't thank me. Wasn't a compliment."
Arno cleared his throat. "Lysander Caspian. Per your request."
"Right, right. I remember now." Thorn set his mug down and stood, stretching with a series of painful-sounding cracks. "No speeches. No tests. You're here to learn and stay alive. If you can manage both without whining, we'll get along fine."
I opened my mouth to say something clever, then wisely shut it.
"Come on," he said. "I'll show you the place."
And just like that, Elder Thorn led us on a very unceremonious tour. The guy walked like he had nails in his boots and narrated like someone who'd rather be doing anything else.
"That's the dining hall. Don't complain about the food, we all eat it."
"Over there's the training yard. Yes, it's outside. Yes, it's always cold. Get over it."
"Library's that way. Don't rearrange the scrolls. Last guy who did got buried in an avalanche. Probably unrelated, but we don't take chances."
I almost liked him. He had that rare talent for making a magical stronghold feel like a rundown boarding school.
Eventually, he stopped in front of a small door tucked between two larger ones.
"Your room," he said. "No chamber pot jokes. You clean it yourself. Wake up bell's at dawn. If you miss it, we assume you froze to death. Any questions?"
"Just one," I said. "How bad is the food?"
He actually cracked a smile. "Depends on who's cooking. If it's Garen, pray."
With that, he left us alone.
I stepped into the room. It was small—stone walls, a narrow bed with a thin blanket, a desk, and a chair that looked like it might collapse out of spite. There was a window, though. Not that it mattered. All it showed was snow.
Arno leaned against the doorframe. "Could be worse."
"Yeah. We could be dead."
He gave me one of his rare half-smirks. "Get some rest. Training starts tomorrow. And you're going to need your strength."
"Fantastic."
He closed the door behind him. I sat on the bed and stared at the wall for a while. There wasn't much else to do. No grand destiny speeches, no glowing scrolls, no secret prophecies.
Just snow, stone, and silence.
So far, Black Wind Vale was exactly what I expected.
Cold. Miserable. And somehow, still better than home.
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