He had traveled the road from the White Springs in the distant north of Snovorija down to Halimor more times than he could count. From Kraljevac, the capital of the southern lands, there were two main routes to Halimor — the Duhan Road and the Northern Road. Although the Duhan Road offered a direct connection between the two cities, Darion always chose the Northern one, which passed through Snovorija. He liked spending time on the road, and the Northern route was quieter, less traveled — and he had never been a fan of crowds.

  But now, he was heading to a place that held more people than anywhere else — not because he wanted to, but because he had been asked to.

  Exactly three months ago, he had left Kraljevac and headed for the White Springs, the capital of Snovorija. He was one of the few who had truly seen the beauty of that city. Crossing the northern plains of the Great Plain, he had entered the realm of eternal snow and ice, where a week of riding awaited him before the towers of the White Springs appeared on the horizon.

  The city was named after the two rivers that sprang from the mountaintop — crystal-clear sources that birthed the Silmor River, which eventually joined the Nirela near Kraljevac and flowed onward to the Bay of Varkan.

  Built of white marble and shimmering granite, the city seemed to hover in the wind — as though not constructed by human hands, but carved from snow and ice by some forgotten magic.

  As soon as he crossed the bridge leading to the great gate, he felt the peace and stillness of this place. His horse, always restless before the gates of the White Springs, locked its hooves as if sensing something even Darion couldn’t explain — as if it knew that behind that threshold, the world was not as it seemed.

  “Easy, boy. I know you’re afraid,” Darion whispered, gently stroking the horse’s head before dismounting.

  “Come on, you’ll stay here like last time.”

  He took the reins and led the horse toward the stable outside the city.

  “Eron!” he called, approaching the small house where the stableman usually sat.

  He tied the horse to a post and stepped inside.

  Eron sat slouched in a chair, feet crossed on the table, his head buried in a fur coat, snoring like a polar bear. He wasn’t a full-blooded Snowen — his mother was from Snovorija, but his father was a Ravnjani. He’d spent most of his life in the city of U??e, where the Nirela met the bay. Even after more than ten years in the White Springs, he had never gotten used to the cold.

  “Eron!” Darion shouted, slamming his fist on the table. The crash jolted Eron awake, sending him tumbling from his chair, landing hard on his back.

  “Wha— who—” Eron stammered, instinctively reaching for the axe leaning against the wall. Darion couldn’t help but laugh, watching him flail on the ground.

  “If I’d wanted to kill you, I’d have done it without waking you.”

  Eron brushed the hair from his eyes and looked up at his rude visitor.

  “Darion?!” His eyes widened in shock. For a moment, he looked like he might embrace him — but changed his mind.

  “Damn you! I nearly died of fright.”

  He bent down, grabbed a log from the floor, and tossed it into the large stove burning in the corner.

  “Mighty Eron, former royal guard — scared to death,” Darion teased.

  “Oh, I’d love to see that,” he added.

  “Does your father know where you’re sneaking off to, boy?” Eron shot back, cutting through the banter and wiping the smile off Darion’s face.

  “He doesn’t. And he won’t.”

  The tone in his voice cast a chill over the room.

  Eron studied him for a few moments, then burst into laughter.

  “Come on, kid… I’m not the type to snitch.”

  He pulled out a bottle of Zemijan wine and slid another chair over to the table.

  “Heading up again?” he asked, not waiting for an answer.

  “You know they’ll never give it to you. The elixir’s never left the White Springs.”

  He took a swig.

  “I have to try. My mother’s dying. And that elixir is the only thing that might prolong her life.”

  Eron leaned closer as if about to share a secret.

  “They’re strange folk, and I say that as a half-blood. What they do… it’s not right. I’ve seen their minds die long before their bodies. I’ve seen the change.”

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  His eyes glistened. His voice trembled.

  “I saw my mother sit there — breathing, looking through me — but she was gone. Darion… you don’t want that kind of ending.”

  “I have no choice,” Darion replied.

  He drained his cup and headed for the door.

  “Please, keep him warm. He still won’t cross the city gates.”

  Eron nodded.

  “Sometimes I think horses are wiser than people.”

  The castle of King Silvan sat atop the highest point of the White Springs — a grand palace with two towering spires that rose a hundred meters above the rest. The flags of Snovorija rippled in the wind.

  From the city gates all the way to the final staircase leading to the Palace of Silence stretched exactly fourteen thousand steps. Entry into the palace was reserved for nobles — and, on rare occasions, for commoners granted a personal invitation from the king or his family.

  That journey led through several levels of the city, each representing a stratum of society. Every two thousand steps marked a visible shift.

  The lowest level, right at the entrance, was home to peasants, merchants, and laborers — and the only part of the city where non-Snowen could live permanently, mostly Zemijans and Ravnjani.

  The next level belonged to hunters, city guards, and innkeepers — the liveliest district at night, with taverns lining both sides of the stairs. It was also the most dangerous, full of narrow alleys and travelers from all corners of the world.

  Next came the level of apothecaries, ointment-makers, cooks, and palace servants.

  The fourth level housed warriors, soldiers, and explorers, along with training fields.

  The fifth and sixth levels belonged to the highest military ranks, commanders, scholars, priests, and professors. The most esteemed class lived closest to the royal family — fitting, as King Silvan deeply valued knowledge and those who possessed it.

  Darion clutched his cloak, trying to resist the cold. Winter had seeped deep into his bones, and all he wanted was to leave this place as soon as he could.

  “Tisen asked me to meet him… I hope he brings good news.”

  He wanted to believe it, though he suspected his hope would be dashed once again.

  Tisen was the king’s third son — and the only one who often mingled with commoners. Darion was certain he didn’t do it out of compassion, but to feed his ego and compensate for the insignificance he’d always felt in the palace.

  As the third child, he never got to be the center of attention. Even when he was mentioned, it was usually in tandem with his twin sister — Tisena.

  “Tisen and Tisena…”

  Darion smiled to himself.

  “The king robbed them of individuality from the start.”

  He was passing through the sixth level now, and more and more uniformed figures were casting glances his way.

  Before reaching the palace stairs, he turned behind the library and followed a narrow path leading to a service gate — the back entrance used by servants.

  It was usually locked and guarded, but now it stood open and empty.

  “Tisen must’ve ordered it opened — so I could pass unnoticed.”

  The courtyard beyond was beautifully arranged. A large tree stood in the center, surrounded by a circular stone bench. Flowers bloomed in planters, defying even the white winters of the mountain.

  Silvan insisted that every part of the palace be fit for a king — for one never knew where he might choose to spend his time.

  As he crossed the courtyard, Darion’s attention was drawn to a figure on a balcony above. He couldn’t make out the face in the darkness, but he felt someone watching. A chill ran down his spine as his heartbeat quickened.

  “Darion!” a voice called.

  From the room lit by a fireplace, a pale man stepped out with open arms. His white robe was laced with gold — as if to announce his status to the world.

  Before Darion could say a word, the man pulled him into a firm embrace and clapped him on the back.

  “My boy, it’s been too long!”

  His smile was wide — uncharacteristic for a Snowen.

  Darion tried to slip from the hug, lips pressed tightly together.

  “Tisen, I’m glad to see you too,” he said, scanning for the figure on the balcony — but it was gone.

  Tisen furrowed his brow. His voice became calm, flat.

  “Are you angry? Worried someone might see you here?”

  Darion didn’t know how to respond. A knot formed in his gut — a warning.

  “I saw someone above,” he finally said.

  “Nonsense!” Tisen laughed.

  “I made sure no one would be here tonight. Must’ve been your imagination.”

  He glanced at the balcony again, unsure himself.

  “Come, let’s warm you up. This climate doesn’t suit you.”

  The room was warm — Darion knew it was for his sake. Snowen didn’t feel cold like others. What was freezing to most was mild to them.

  “I had them prepare rabbit stew. I know you like it.”

  Darion smiled faintly. One thing was certain — Tisen was always a gracious host, though his kindness always came at a price.

  Tisen lit his pipe and sank into a large armchair in the corner. Darion sat by the fire, trying to maintain his manners while eating, though he wanted nothing more than to bury his face in the pot.

  “How’s your mother?” Tisen asked, just to break the silence.

  “Worse than last time,”

  He set down his spoon and wiped his mouth.

  “Maybe a better question is: can you help me?”

  “I can,” Tisen said, surprising him.

  Hope lit up Darion’s eyes.

  “But the real question is — do I want to?”

  Tisen paced the room, one hand waving, the other behind his back.

  “Listen, Darion… what you’re asking is against every law of my people. I’d be disowned by my family if I gave the elixir to an outsider.”

  Darion said nothing. He tried to read the excuse in advance, to find a hint in Tisen’s expression — but he played the game perfectly, as always.

  Tisen stopped. His gaze fixed on Darion’s eyes.

  “Still… maybe I could help.”

  A pause.

  Darion didn’t blink.

  Tisen continued:

  “But not because I like you. And not because I believe you’ll do the right thing. Maybe I would do it… if you did something for me.”

  A smile crept across his lips — cold, without joy.

  Darion stood. Quietly. No sudden moves. He stepped forward, just a few paces away.

  His chest burned with exhaustion, fear, old hatred, and one thing more: the desire to save his mother.

  “I’ll do whatever it takes,” he said softly.

  And then, quieter still, jaw clenched:

  “But if you betray me again… next time I come here, I’ll skin you like a rabbit and make stew out of you.”

  Tisen burst out laughing.

  “Don’t worry! That was just a friendly prank last time. Come on, don’t be so serious.”

  He slapped his cheek — almost gently.

  “You wouldn’t risk starting a war over me, would you? What would your father say?”

  A fire blazed in Darion’s eyes. His hand moved toward his sword’s hilt.

  Just one move.

  One.

  But then he saw — not Tisen, but his mother. Pale, silent, lying in bed. And he knew he couldn’t.

  The thought passed. The rage ebbed.

  He smiled nervously.

  “Alright. What do you want?”