The northern wind carried a biting chill as Sol and Jareth guided their horses down a winding trail, leaving the shadow of the mountains behind. Serpent Ridge loomed ahead, jagged peaks slicing the horizon like the teeth of some ancient beast. Sol's eyes never strayed far from the craggy silhouettes, his senses alert to the faintest movement in the treeline.
"We'll reach the village before nightfall," Jareth said, adjusting the saddle of his horse. His tone was casual, but the sharpness in his eyes betrayed his unease. "It's small—mostly hunters and traders—but they keep the road ahead clear. Or at least, they used to."
Sol's lips pressed into a thin line. 'Used to,' he echoed silently. 'That's what worries me. Anything that disrupts the flow of trade and travel this close to the kingdom is dangerous.'
The village came into view—roughly a dozen stone and timber houses huddled along the riverbank, smoke curling lazily from chimneys. Beyond, the mountains clawed at the sky, their peaks hidden by thickening clouds. The sunlight waned, leaving long shadows that stretched like fingers across the fields.
As they dismounted near the inn, Sol caught fragments of conversation. The villagers spoke in hushed tones, eyes darting toward the ridge.
"Did you hear? Another hunting party disappeared near the Ridge last week. Not a trace."
"Bandits? Maybe, but the Ridge… it's… It's changed. There's something wrong up there. Shadows moving like they have minds of their own."
Sol's hand twitched slightly. 'Shadows moving with intent…' he thought. 'That matches the reports from the scouts. Something is consolidating power in the mountains. A clan, or worse.'
Jareth led the way into the inn, a modest building with a low wooden ceiling and the smell of roasting meat. "Rooms are upstairs," he said. "We'll eat first, then gather what information we can. People here are more talkative once they see the coin in your hand."
The common room buzzed with quiet chatter. Hunters, traders, and a few weary travelers spoke of missing caravans, unnatural weather, and the sudden increase in dangerous wildlife near the ridge. Sol listened carefully, piecing together the scattered reports.
"They call it the Shroud Clan," a grizzled man muttered, leaning across a table to whisper. "They came from the northern passes a few months ago. No one's seen their faces, and anyone who goes into the Ridge doesn't come back. They say the mountains themselves bend to them—like the stones obey their will."
Sol's pulse quickened. 'No exaggeration, then. They've seized control, but why now? What's their endgame?'
Jareth appeared beside him, lowering his voice. "You're thinking the same as me. They're organized. We can't underestimate them. I've led troops through rough terrain before, but if they've mastered guerrilla tactics in the mountains… this could be deadly."
Sol nodded, feeling the weight of responsibility settle heavier on his shoulders. 'I can't let them see me. Not yet. I'll fight if I must, but the sword stays hidden. Jareth cannot know, not until I have no other choice.'
They ate in silence, gathering fragments of rumors from villagers. The Shroud Clan was said to employ unnatural beasts, shadow-infused hunters, and even mystical traps along the mountain passes. Merchants avoided the Ridge entirely, rerouting caravans hundreds of miles east, but the King's orders required that Sol traverse the pass.
After dinner, Sol and Jareth ascended to their room. Sol laid out maps, tracing the path through the mountains. He could see the natural choke points, narrow trails, and exposed cliffs. Each bend in the path could be an ambush.
Jareth's eyes narrowed. "You're analyzing every detail. Smart. But…" He paused, his voice dropping. "Your Highness, I've led men through ambushes before, but we'll need to rely on more than strategy. The Ridge is alive with danger, and I don't trust luck to see us through."
Sol leaned back against the wall, his gaze distant. 'Luck isn't enough,' he thought. 'Skill, perception, adaptability… and patience. That is what will carry me through. And when patience fails… the sword will speak.'
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. A young innkeeper, cheeks flushed from the hearth, held a small bundle of parchment. "These were left for travelers passing through," she said quietly. "Some maps… some warnings from hunters. They said the Ridge isn't safe for strangers."
Sol accepted the bundle, unrolling the parchment carefully. The maps were crude but accurate, showing trails, caves, and marks indicating ambush points. Notes scribbled in the margins mentioned strange figures moving in the mountains at night, glowing eyes glimpsed between trees, and sounds that did not belong to any animal.
'So they really are entrenched,' Sol thought. 'Every report I've gathered lines up. And they've been here long enough to know the terrain as intimately as I do. I will have to match them, step for step, without revealing my true strength.'
Jareth watched him study the maps. "Your Highness… you're too tense. Rest will do more for your mind and body than overthinking every detail."
Sol smiled faintly. "Rest is a luxury, Captain. When lives are at stake, I can't afford it." His hand brushed the hilt of the sword under his cloak, almost giving him away as it hummed faintly in response. He froze for a heartbeat. 'Focus. Patience. Not yet.'
Night deepened, the wind howling against the wooden shutters. Sol lay awake, listening to the villagers' muffled conversations downstairs, the distant howl of wolves echoing from the ridge, and the subtle hum beneath his cloak.
'Tomorrow, the first step into the Shroud Clan's territory,' he thought. 'I will rely on observation, strategy, and every skill the old Sol carried. The sword will remain a secret until it is unavoidable. Jareth cannot know… not yet. If the old Sol had faced this, he might have rushed in blindly. I will not make that mistake.'
The fire in the inn crackled, shadows dancing across the walls. Sol traced the map lines again, memorizing choke points, trail splits, and natural cover. Every detail was a puzzle, and the Ridge itself was an opponent.
'The Shroud Clan is patient. So am I. The Ridge will not defeat me. But I must respect it. Every step, every choice… survival is strategy.'
Sleep came in short bursts, fragmented by the sounds of the night and the subtle thrum beneath his cloak. The journey was no longer a simple envoy mission; it was a test of skill, restraint, and cunning.
When dawn broke, pale and silver over the village, Sol rose with renewed focus. Jareth was already preparing the horses. "Ready?" he asked, his voice low, cautious.
Sol nodded, shouldering his pack. 'Ready in mind, in body, in resolve. The Ridge awaits, and every shadow is a potential threat. Today, I begin the first stage of the true trial.'
He cast one last glance at the village, at the smoke curling from chimneys and the wary eyes of the villagers. Rumors, maps, and whispers had prepared him. The danger ahead would be greater, and his restraint would be tested to the limit.
As they mounted and rode toward the northern peaks, Sol felt the weight of both past and future pressing on him. The Ridge loomed dark and jagged before him, alive with unseen threats, and he promised himself silently:
'I will survive. I will reach Eboncrest. And I will not let anyone see what I am capable of… not yet.'
The wind carried their horses forward, the path narrowing, the shadows growing longer, and the Shroud Clan waiting silently in the mountains above.