The corridors of Frosthold looked different with Elara at my side.
Where before they had been intimidating, a labyrinth of stone and shadow filled with assessing eyes, now they became something else—a living history, a story written in stone and ice, waiting to be read. Elara pointed out details I had missed, explained symbols I had not understood, and shared fragments of the fortress's long memory as casually as another might discuss the weather.
"That carving there," she said, gesturing toward a relief on the wall, "is from the time of the third Frost. He defeated an ice-wyrm that had been terrorizing the eastern passes for a generation. They say he wrestled it bare-handed, though I suspect that's an exaggeration. "She grinned, a flash of mischief in her warm brown eyes. "Kaelen says it was probably a very small wyrm and a very large amount of storytelling."
I smiled, the first genuine smile since arriving. Does your brother disbelieve in legends?
