As we talked, Fyren led me on a gentle loop through the horde, giving me a much-needed chance to stretch my legs. Beyond the demons, who cowered at Fyren's presence, I found the scenery breathtaking.
Mountains rose around us, smaller than the towering peaks of Heartland, but more imposing than the rolling hills of Brithlite. They were cloaked in thick pine forests dusted with frost, their peaks hidden by a veil of freshly falling snow. The sun peeked through the clouds, casting a pale light on the flurries dancing in the late autumn breeze.
I shivered as a snowflake landed on my nose, pulling my white cloak tighter around me.
"Is something the matter?" Fyren asked, his voice laced with concern. "You're not cold, are you? Not with your magic."
I shivered again, tucking my tail between my legs. "It's nothing," I murmured. "I, um… just don't have the fondest memories of snow."
