The cold hit harder than expected.
Imar stood at the base of the northern mountains, wind clawing at his coat, biting into the seams. Fresh and deep snow crunched beneath his boots. Frost clung to the edges of pine bark like veins of glass, and in the distance, the mountains rose—white, jagged, and ancient.
This was the Forgotten World, and the name felt earned. These were lands that the smugglers hadn't been able to invade fully, so many creatures fled here for safety during the first wave.
Everything here seemed slower, stiller, as though time moved differently in the north. Even the air was dense with silence and something else—a low, steady hum of magic pulsing beneath his skin.
He exhaled into his gloves and reached into his satchel, pulling out the communication stone. It was cool and smooth in his palm, humming faintly with stored energy. He whispered her name.
"Yara... come on, answer me."
The stone stayed dark. No flicker of light. No pulse of returning magic.
