The mist of Mirath was slowly dissipating when Damon crossed the gates of the domain.
The wind cut his face like a thin blade, and the damp smell of the earth announced the beginning of the long road that would take him to Arven. Behind him, the towers of Mirath diminished until they became gray silhouettes against the horizon.
For hours, the sound of hooves was his only companion. The stone path gave way to beaten earth, and the cold increased as the altitude rose. Dense forests rose on both sides of the trail—twisted trunks and moss-covered branches formed tunnels of shadow and silence.
The first night fell quickly.
Damon made camp under an ancient tree, where the ground was dry enough for a fire. The horse grazed nearby, peacefully, while he examined the rolled-up map that Elizabeth had given him.
From Mirath to Arven, it would be a five-day journey if the weather remained fair. But nothing in that region was usually predictable.
