Before the first light of dawn, Sif faced Master Ronar once more upon a frost-chilled meadow. The older warrior—fifty winters etched into his silvered hair and weathered face—held his stance like a statue carved from iron. Sif charged, blade flashing in the pale glow. Each clash rang sharp as steel rang against hardened steel: Ronar's parry would drive Sif's sword aside, then send a burning riposte across his ribs or shoulder, pain flaring red beneath the thin tunic. Time and again, Sif forced himself upright, breath ragged and muscles trembling, until at last exhaustion dulled the edge of every strike.
With a sudden jolt, the world blurred. He found himself kneeling on a sodden field where winter's first snow fell in thick, cold flakes. Torn banners and shattered shields lay half-buried in the mud. Before him, Master Ronar collapsed, a long sword buried in his throat. Behind that fatal stroke loomed a towering figure—seven feet in blackened plate, visor glinting like a dying ember. Horror seized Sif's heart—and then the earth spun away.
He awoke upright in a vast bed, his back perfectly straight against sumptuous pillows. The chamber was grand: vaulted ceiling, tapestried walls, and a hearth's embered glow dancing upon polished oak. For a moment he wondered if he still dreamed—until he saw Salfara at his side.
She sat upon the edge of the bed, draped in a nightgown of deep sapphire silk that clung to her graceful curves like moonlight on water. Her crimson hair fell in soft waves to her waist; her skin gleamed pale and flawless in the firelight; and her dark-blue eyes—bright as polished gems—shone with gentle amusement. Even in slumber's attire, she was a portrait of both beauty and latent power.
Sif's cheeks flamed when he realized his own attire: only a pair of plain woolen drawers that swayed at his knees. He sat even taller against the pillows, eyes wide.
Salfara's lips curved in a playful smile. "You slept well," she murmured, voice like a warm breeze.
He cleared his throat, voice tight. "Where… where are we? And what have you done with my clothes?"
Her laughter, soft and musical, filled the chamber. "Peace, my fox. We are in an inn—far safer than the barracks. Your tunic and breeches were soaked in mud and blood. I could not abide leaving you in such a sorry plight." Rising gracefully, she crossed to a wardrobe and drew forth his garments: a sturdy wool tunic, leather trousers, and fur-lined boots—each freshly laundered and mended. "There. Now you will not freeze."
Sif tugged on the warm tunic, cheeks still warm. After a moment, Salfara tilted her head, curiosity in her gaze. "Tell me, where are you bound now?"
He folded his arms over his chest, voice steady. "Plans have changed. I need to meet someone."
He paused, then asked, "And the capital—can you open the portal now?"
Salfara's expression softened with regret. "Not yet. That magic demands rare reagents and nearly a month of preparation. We cannot breach the veil to Imperis until then."
She stepped closer and laid a hand on his arm. "Instead, meet me in Skyrouth for the former Queen's birthday celebration. There, we step through together."
Sif folded his arms across his chest. "Are you certain?"
"Magic demands its due," she replied, voice gentle. "Certainty has a cost."
After a beat, she added: "Also—you must join me at that fête. A royal gathering requires proper dress."
Sif's brow furrowed. "I have never attended such an occasion."
She smiled, warm and patient. "Then you shall learn. And now—your things." She nodded toward the wardrobe.
He rose from the bed, straight and steady, retrieving cloak and boots. "Very well. One month, Skyrouth."
"Agreed," Salfara whispered, slipping from the room.
As dawn broke, Sif stepped onto the frost-cloaked road, the distant rooftops of the Frostmoor fading behind him. He surveyed the crossroads, searching for any sign of a mount or carriage bound for Skyhaven—ten days' journey to the north. But the lonely path held only the echoes of birdsong and the crunch of his own boots.
Near the old elm at the fork, he spotted a brightly painted wagon drawn up beside a handful of traveling merchants and minstrels. Their banners fluttered in the breeze, proclaiming them as The Silver Veil Troupe, bound for Skyhaven's grand Festival of Dawning Lights.
Sif approached the scarred coachman, whose reins lay jingling over a sturdy chestnut mare. "Good folk," he called, voice steady despite the cold, "I seek passage to Skyhaven. I have coin and skill with blade—might I travel with you?"
The coachman, a broad-shouldered man with a weather-beaten face, eyed Sif's pack and crossbow. "We could use an extra guard," he rumbled, "and the road grows perilous past the Frostvale Ridge. Ten days we ride, through woods and moor. Half your coin and your arm at our side, and there's your berth."
From beneath the wagon's awning, a lute-player offered Sif a nod. "Bring your tales to our evening campfire, and we'll share both coin and song," she added with a grin.
sif didn't hesitate. He offered five silver royals—more than fair for ten days' ride and shared company. The coachman, after a glance to the others, gave a curt nod and gestured toward the back
Sif stowed his pack beside crates of spice and casks of cheap wine, then climbed into the covered wagon's bed. The merchants and minstrels welcomed him with worn jokes and cheerful nods, accustomed to strange companions
the coachman took the reins, and with a snap, the wagon rolled onto the open road. The mare trotted forward over rutted soil, and the trees of the south began to fall away behind them
As the mare strode out onto the rutted road, Sif settled against his pack, heart lifting. At last—ten days to Skyhaven, and a way forward had been found