The mist on the road dissipated as the sun rose, revealing the distant towers of Arven—a colossus of stone and iron that rose against the horizon. The walls, wide enough to accommodate two carriages side by side, cast long shadows over the frozen ground. Damon slowed his horse, observing the main gate as he approached.
Arven was not just a city. It was a bastion. The kind of place that seemed to have been born not from the will of its founders, but from the very need to resist. The towers gleamed under the pale sun, and banners bearing the coat of arms of the Leviathan Order—a winged serpent encircling a sword—waved slowly in the wind.
The activity around was intense. Merchants, soldiers, entire caravans awaited authorization to enter. Damon dismounted, leading his horse by the reins. The animal snorted, impatient with the smell of iron and smoke that hung in the air.
