Eryndor smiled, mischief sparkling in his eyes.
"Because it is not a tale. I have crossed its moonstone bridges; I have felt the gentle pulse of its magic beneath my feet. My hands have touched the diamond flowers in its gardens, with petals soft as silk and fragrant as roses. I have bowed before the Sky Throne of High Sovereign Juran, where the very air hums with power."
Serenya held her breath, her eyes widening in awe. The mention of the Sky Throne stirred questions that crowded her mind, but they could not find their way out through her lips. Part of her feared that if she asked too much, the vision would fade like mist at dawn. Another part feared the opposite: that the answers would ignite a fire nothing and no one could ever put out.
For the next hour, the Wanderer kept weaving visions of Aelestara. He described crystal towers that grew like trees, with facets that sparkled like a thousand diamonds under the sun. He spoke of airships shaped like silver fish, gliding across the sky with impossible grace, their hulls glowing with an ethereal light. He told of lakes suspended in the air, with waterfalls flowing upward while the wind sent them back down, in a perpetual dance of water and air.
As he spoke, Serenya's imagination blossomed, nourished by Eryndor's words. She envisioned gardens with flowers that sang as they opened, whose petals glimmered with a soft iridescent light. In her vision, birds' wings refracted sunlight into vivid colors, and their song filled the air with melody. The city of Aelestara came alive in her mind: a place of wonder and magic she longed for with all her soul.
Without meaning to, she compared that vision with the corridors of the citadel: long hallways that devoured sound, chambers where the torches seemed to flicker with exhaustion, courtyards where ice clung stubbornly to stone as a reminder that even the mildest season there was only a truce. In Aelestara, according to Eryndor, light itself seemed a living creature; in the Northern Peaks, light was a timid guest that fled as soon as winter frowned. That comparison drove a deeper thorn into her chest.
The hour passed like a dream. When Eryndor finally fell silent, Serenya felt as though she were waking from a long lethargy, her senses sharpened and the visions still vibrating in her mind. A part of her wanted to demand more details, to cling to any scrap of information that would let her imagine, with an architect's precision, each bridge, each arch, each hall of that city suspended between sky and earth. Another part feared that the more she knew, the more unbearable her life among the frozen stones of the north would become.
When he finished, a hollow weight settled in her chest. A longing began to echo through the empty chambers of her heart once more. She turned toward the window; the desolate landscape stretched out before her like an icy tomb. The snow‑covered peaks gleamed under the pale light—beautiful, yes, but cold, unyielding, and lifeless.
The seed of longing drove its roots deeper. She knew it would be difficult to rid herself of the restlessness that now ruled her. And yet, as the wind howled against the windowpanes as if trying to break in and tear away her newly awakened resolve, a question began to form, silent but stubborn: if Aelestara truly existed, how much longer could she endure seeing it only through another's words?
A voice broke in from the farthest column, sharp as icy water at dawn. Lord Taelthorn stepped forward, his presence as heavy as the freezing wind roaring outside the citadel walls. His black hair framed a face of severe features; his eyes, hard as steel, gleamed in the dim light with an intensity that made Serenya feel as though she were under the gaze of an implacable judge.
"I heard you, Eryndor. You spoke of Aelestara," he murmured, his voice devoid of emotion yet tinged with faint mockery. "Do you believe its beauty will ever be ours?"
The question sounded more like a challenge than a doubt. Serenya felt a spark of defiance ignite within her, a flame fed by determination and frustration. She held Taelthorn's gaze without looking away.
"I insist," she replied firmly, despite the whirlwind growing inside her. "We, the sovereigns of the Northern Peaks, must behold the wonders that exist beyond our borders. We are part of a world, my lord. Beyond this citadel there is beauty, there are marvels."
As she spoke, the memory of Elyra crossed her mind like a flash: "The world is full of thresholds, Serenya, and life is only lived by crossing them." The words of the friend who had pushed her not to fear new doors resonated, mingling with the expectant silence of the hall. It was as though two different mountains were pulling her in opposite directions: the prudence of her lineage and the impulse of that voice of wind and doors.
Taelthorn's face remained unreadable, but Serenya could feel his doubt, heavy as a shadow poised to shatter her resolve. She knew that look well, that tone. And they filled her with a foreboding chill.
"Are you sure?" Taelthorn retorted, with a sarcastic smile tinged with superiority. His gaze, sharp as a spear, fixed first on Serenya and then slid toward Eryndor.
"You plant dangerous seeds, Wanderer…" he said in a low, threatening voice, like the warning of a beast in hiding.
Eryndor raised his hands in a gesture of innocence, though his eyes sparked with amusement.
"I merely water what was already waiting to sprout," he replied, in a voice as soft as silk.
Silence fell upon the hall. Serenya held Taelthorn's gaze, unmoving. For an instant, time itself seemed to stop. Only the slow dance of dust in the dying light showed that the world still existed.
The echo of the word "dangerous" hung in the air like a bronze bell slow to stop vibrating. Serenya wondered if Taelthorn feared more the idea of losing control over her than the genuine risks of a journey into the unknown. At her side, Eryndor seemed perfectly comfortable on the edge of that tension, like a tightrope walker long accustomed to abysses.