Traveling to the Quiet Pass required reliance on landmarks carefully noted down in Kyra's hand.
She had prepared more than a simple map. There were annotations in the margins, warnings about deceptive terrain, instructions on how to recognize certain rock formations, and small, precise sketches of natural markers that would otherwise pass unnoticed. She had even written what to observe when entering the Pass itself. Some stretches, she warned, were like mirrors. The ground glazed over in such a way that it reflected the sky above, disorienting riders into misjudging distance. In other places, the walls shone when struck by angled sunlight, blinding the eye and concealing narrow ledges.
He had considered taking his own horse.
Kyra advised otherwise.
"The mountain cold will sap a southern breed," she had said. "Take one built for this."
The horse selected for him was less graceful than his own but far more suited to the North. A broad, muscled creature with thick winter fur and heavy fetlocks that resisted frost. Its breath steamed in steady plumes, unbothered by the chill.
He packed rations that would not freeze solid such dried meats cured properly, hard cheese wrapped in waxed cloth, dense bread meant for long storage. A small kit for kindling and fire-starting went into his saddlebag. His armored cloak, layered and plated, would suffice against wind. He required little else.
He did not dally.
He rode north.
Passing through the city gate, he felt the subtle shift in air as the walls of Icy's End fell behind him. Within, daylight had struck stone and glass, reflecting faint warmth. Without, the world widened and sharpened.
The frozen road ahead was barely visible, save for the line of stone pillars marking its direction. Snow had swallowed much of the path. The pillars, driven deep into earth and ice, stood like silent sentinels guiding travelers through white expanse.
Behind him, the walled city still stood proud under daylight.
Before him, only distance.
The road wound between towering trees whose branches sagged beneath the weight of snow. Their trunks were thick, bark darkened by frost. Wind whispered through them in low, constant murmur.
Ten thousand paces from the gate, he reached an outpost.
Two men guarded it.
They were bundled in fur layered over armor, thick collars framing their helmets. Even so, their bulk was unmistakable. Northerners, through and through.
He greeted them with a nod and produced the Duchess's ring.
Through the narrow slit of one guard's helm, he caught the glint of skeptical eyes.
They looked at him. At his cloak. At the horse beneath him.
There was doubt there.
Clear and undisguised that they think he shouldn't be here.
He almost smiled.
Did they think him ignorant? Reckless? Perhaps both.
It did not matter. He would ride regardless.
"I head for the Quiet Pass," he said plainly.
One of them shifted in his saddle.
"Not many go alone," the man remarked.
"I am not many."
That earned him a short huff that might have been amusement.
He did not hesitate to ask about recent changes in the Pass. Snowfalls. Rockslides. Unusual movement. The guards answered plainly. Nothing new beyond treacherous wind and drifting ice.
One volunteered to guide him partway.
He accepted.
They rode together for some minutes, hooves crunching against packed snow, until they reached a natural stone bridge spanning two deep chasms. It arched between cliffs in a formation that looked almost deliberate, as though carved by patient hands rather than time.
The guard nudged his horse forward and pointed.
"Head left once across. Then up the narrow ascent. You'll see it."
Cendre inclined his head.
"My thanks."
He urged his mount onto the bridge.
At its center, he paused.
The wind struck harder there, funneling upward from the depths below. He turned slightly in his saddle and looked down.
Far beneath, a river wound like a silver serpent through the chasm. Its surface glimmered where ice had not fully claimed it.
Along its banks and in scattered clusters upon the ice stood hundreds of penguins.
They bore reddish manes at their throats, bright against monochrome surroundings. They gathered densely, bodies shifting and pressing close. Some moved along the river's edge in a slow procession, following its path.
He had read about them once.
How they migrated eastward during harsher winters, toward seas warmed by distant currents. How they traveled in great numbers to lessen risk from predators. Of course, the predators migrated too. Instinct followed instinct.
He watched them a moment longer.
Creatures driven by necessity.
He crossed the remainder of the bridge and turned left as instructed.
The ascent was narrow and uneven, more suggestion than road. He leaned forward slightly in the saddle as the horse climbed, trusting the beast's sure footing. The wind shifted there, curling between stone faces and biting at exposed skin.
Gradually, the path leveled.
And then he saw it.
A tundra opened before him.
The hunting grounds of House Blanc stretched wide and austere, bordered by towering redwood trees. Their immense trunks rose like pillars, bark stiffened and glazed with frost. The reddish-green of their leaves peeked through heavy blankets of snow, muted but still persistent.
The place was rather loud, surprisingly.
For a stretch of land so vast and white, he had expected silence from the outset. Instead, sound lived within the trees.
Through the towering trunks, in small hollows carved by time and beak, birds had made their nests. Their calls echoed faintly between bark and frost, sharp chirps and low trills woven together in restless conversation. Other animals moved within the natural cavities of the redwoods, hiding from the cold. He caught glimpses of furred shapes shifting inside the hollow trunks, small creatures pressing close to conserve warmth.
From a distance, he spotted something larger. It moved slowly across an open stretch between the trees, massive shoulders rolling beneath a thick coat of fur. A single horn jutted from its head, broad at the base and curved slightly forward. It used the horn to sweep aside snow in heavy arcs, exposing whatever vegetation lay buried beneath.
The beast was as large as a wagon. As wide, perhaps wider.
When it noticed him and the horse, it stilled.
Its head lifted. Breath steamed in thick clouds. One hoof stamped, carving a shallow trough in the snow.
Then it shifted its stance, angling its body in a way that made its intent unmistakable. If he advanced further in that direction, it would charge.
He did not test it. He wasn't here to hunt or provoke some animals, so he eased the reins gently and backed away, giving the creature a wide berth. Once partially shielded by a tree, he guided his mount around and continued on, eyes sharper now.
Kyra's notes came to mind.
The first landmark was difficult to miss once one knew what to seek.
A giant lamp, roughly the size of a dog house, had been nailed to the side of an enormous redwood. The metal frame was weathered, its glass panes frosted at the edges. It stood as a relic of earlier days when hunts may have extended into dusk.
He passed it and turned right, as instructed.
Snow muffled the sound of hooves, but the forest still murmured with life. He rode until he saw the next marker, a broad boulder set unnaturally close to a tree, as though placed there rather than fallen. Its surface was smooth on one side, bearing faint grooves carved long ago.
He slowed and scanned the ground.
No obvious tracks.
The snow was wind-brushed and uneven, older impressions erased by drifting powder.
Satisfied for the moment, he pressed forward. At the far edge of the hunting ground, the forest opened into a clearing dominated by a statue.
It stood taller than a man, carved from dark stone. The figure wore a fur-lined cloak, its folds rendered with surprising detail. A sword stood upright before him, both hands resting upon the pommel in solemn posture.
"Here lies the First Warden," the plaque at its base read. "Gunther, the First."
The letters were worn but intact.
Melted candles pooled at the base of the plaque, wax hardened in uneven rivulets. Offerings had been left there as well from berries shriveled by frost, dried fruit, and tokens of quiet reverence.
The North remembered its founders.
He studied the statue briefly. The face had been shaped with care, stern brow, deep-set eyes, beard carved in sharp lines. Whoever had commissioned it intended likeness, not abstraction.
Kyra's notes had been precise.
When facing the First Warden, turn right.
He did so.
The path narrowed again, dipping slightly before rising between two small hills that obscured what lay beyond. Snow drifted thicker there, forming shallow banks along the slopes.
As he rode forward, the air shifted.
It had become even colder.
Not abruptly, but steadily, like descending into unseen shade. The warmth radiating from his horse helped, and his armored cloak kept the worst of the wind from biting too deep.
Still, he noticed.
And then the sound changed.
The murmuring forest fell away behind him. The birds were gone. The rustle of hidden creatures ceased.
Silence settled.
It was not the natural quiet of snowfall. It was something else, something contained.
So quiet that he heard only the breath of his horse, the faint leather creak of the saddle, the measured rhythm of hooves against packed snow. Even his own breathing seemed louder than it should.
The sound did not dissipate outward.
It traveled upward.
The walls of the Pass rose gradually around him, not sheer but enclosing enough that echoes climbed along their surfaces. Noise seemed trapped between them, coiling and rising until it vanished somewhere above.
The Quiet Pass.
He understood the name now.
It took roughly twenty minutes to traverse its length at a steady pace.
When he reached its end, the land opened without warning.
Before him stretched a white plain that bled into harsher tundra beyond. The Argent Peaks loomed in the distance, their jagged crowns piercing pale sky. Further still, colossal ice formations hinted at the Poles themselves, massive and unmoving against the horizon.
It was beautiful.
Stark and severe.
One could stare at such a view for hours, perhaps days, and feel small in a way that was neither comforting nor cruel.
And yet the winds here cut differently. They rolled unhindered across open expanse, carrying with them a force that made the ascent and descent through the hills feel almost gentle by comparison.
He turned slowly in the saddle, surveying the terrain.
Ridges rose and fell unpredictably. Rock formations broke sightlines. Snow gathered in deceptive layers that could conceal crevices beneath.
It was no wonder it had taken time to locate the late Duke and the Heir.
Searching here would be like combing a frozen sea for driftwood.
He exhaled slowly.
He had underestimated the place.
The two guards at the outpost had not looked at him with simple doubt. They had looked at him with the expression men reserve for someone who has not yet grasped the scale of what he intends to face.
I was expecting it to be vast, but not like this. I have to be careful here, Cendre thought. No wonder they got lost here. Not to mention the whole landscape is difficult to traverse and whether it's icy minions of some frozen hell or veterans who hunt these parts of the North-Folk lands. They might try to attack me the moment they spot me. It's likely they'll find my horse's track so I better get off here and continue on foot.
Cendre dismounted, took the pack strapped to the horse and then gestured for the horse to move.
"I'll whistle for you," Cendre said. "Stay clear and don't let anyone mount you, okay?"
The horse was well-trained and intelligent. It seemed to understand the command and galloped out of the Quiet Pass, leaving me all alone, like a dot on a white canvas of snow and stone.