First message
Snow-dusted peaks of the Iron Mountains loomed like jagged teeth under a bruised, violet sky. The air was thin and bit with a crystalline chill, smelling of wet slate and ancient pine. Faelan moved with silent, fluid grace through the knee-deep drifts, her silver cloak snapping in the biting gale. Behind her, Borin the dwarf grunted with every heavy step, his iron-shod boots crunching loudly against the frozen crust.
They were bound by a blood-oath to return the Star-Shard, a pulsing sapphire relic stolen from the Elven vaults, now tucked precariously in Borin’s pack. The atmosphere was thick with a century of mutual distrust, as cold as the sleet beginning to sting their faces.
As the sun dipped behind the ridges, casting long, skeletal shadows across the pass, Faelan paused. She turned, her luminous eyes catching the faint glow of the Shard through the leather canvas.
"Tell me, Master Dwarf," she whispered, her breath hitching in the freezing wind, "when we reach the Great Gate, will you truly be able to let its power go, or has the stone already claimed your heart?"