"So, what has you wanting to go north?" the coachman asked, his gruff voice barely rising above the steady clatter of the carriage's wheels against the rough, dirt path. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows over the road as the thick, misty air of the north began to roll in. The man squinted as he glanced sideways at his passenger, Silas, who sat silently beside him in a hooded black robe. "Not many folk want to travel up there, especially these days."
Silas turned his head slightly, the shadow of his hood obscuring his face. His voice, low and measured, carried an air of quiet mystery. "I've always been intrigued by the place. Something about its… isolation. Its history." He paused before adding, "Is there anything you can tell me about it? What should a traveler expect?"
The coachman chuckled, though it was tinged with unease. He adjusted his grip on the reins, guiding the horses as the carriage continued its slow, rhythmic pace along the road. "History, huh?" He let out a long breath, his eyes narrowing in thought as the endless horizon of mountains and tundra stretched before them. "Well, there's no shortage of history up north, that's for sure. Strange place, the Northern Kingdom."
He shifted in his seat, leaning slightly closer as if he were about to share a well-guarded secret. "Y'know, when the kingdom was first founded, it was in pretty bad shape. Real rough times. The weather up there? Brutal. Cold winds that'll cut through to your bones, snow so deep it swallows whole villages. And trade?" He gave a short, bitter laugh. "Barely any to speak of. The merchants didn't want to risk the journey. Hell, no one wanted to. They had dragons up there back then, you know. Real beasts of the North."
Silas's gaze didn't waver, though he remained silent, allowing the coachman to continue.
"Yup, dragons. Huge, scaly things with claws as long as your arm. They used to come down from the icy peaks, attacking settlements, burning homes to cinders, and stealing livestock. It was chaos for years. The kingdom could hardly defend itself, let alone grow. Most thought it'd crumble before it ever had a chance to stand on its own two feet."
The coachman's face darkened as he spoke, recalling tales passed down from his father and his father's father. "But then…then something strange happened."
Silas leaned forward slightly, sensing the shift in the man's tone.
"A lone swordsman showed up," the coachman said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, as if recounting a myth. "Out of nowhere. Young lad, not much older than twenty, they say. Didn't look like much. No armor, no fancy title. Just him and his sword. But there was something about him. Something different."
The coachman's hands tightened on the reins, his eyes distant as he recounted the legend. "They say he arrived during one of the worst dragon attacks the kingdom had ever seen. Villages were in flames, people were fleeing—there wasn't much hope. But this young swordsman, he didn't run. He marched straight into the heart of the battle. Alone."
Silas's eyes flickered with interest beneath his hood. "And?" he prompted, his voice calm but laced with curiosity.
The coachman smiled grimly. "And… he slew them. Every last one of those beasts. Dragons that had terrorized the kingdom for years, brought down by one man and his blade. Some say it was magic. Others say the sword was cursed, or blessed by the gods. But whatever the case, by the time he was done, the skies were clear and the land was silent. The dragons never attacked the kingdom again."
Silas remained quiet for a moment, absorbing the tale. The rhythmic clop of the horses' hooves filled the silence between them. "And what became of this swordsman?" Silas asked, his voice soft but cutting through the stillness like a knife.
"Well, after that, things started to change," the coachman continued, his voice picking up a bit of pride, as if speaking of a hero he'd known personally. "The people hailed him as a savior. Not long after, the king at the time awarded him the title of one of the Ten Sword Saints—an honor only the greatest warriors in the world can claim. He could've gone anywhere, y'know, with that kind of power and fame. But he didn't. He chose to stay in the Northern Kingdom, made it his home."
The coachman shook his head in disbelief, as if he still couldn't quite wrap his mind around the decision. "Once word got out that the North was protected by a Sword Saint, merchants weren't so scared anymore. Trade picked up. The economy grew. The army? Well, let's just say the people up north were always built a bit sturdier, y'know? Cold weather makes you tough. But with the Sword Saint there, the army grew strong. Damn strong. Now, the Northern Kingdom's not just surviving—they're thriving."
The man glanced sideways at Silas, as if trying to gauge his reaction. "Strange, though," he added after a pause, his voice lower now. "No one's seen that swordsman in years. Some say he's still there, watching over the kingdom, biding his time. Others say he's left, or that he's long dead. But the people? They still tell stories about him, about his sword. Say it glows like the Northern Lights when it's drawn, brighter than any flame."
Silas remained silent, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his hood. The faintest trace of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips, though whether it was one of amusement or intrigue, the coachman couldn't tell.
"Quite the story," Silas finally said, his voice almost a whisper. "A man like that… would be useful."
The coachman gave a nervous chuckle, uncertain how to respond to the cryptic remark. "Aye, well… if the stories are true, he's as useful as they come. But it's hard to say what's fact and what's just legend, now, isn't it?"
"Interesting… May I hear more about these dragons?" Silas asked, his voice betraying a genuine curiosity. His tone was calm, yet there was an intensity in the way his gaze fixed on the coachman, as though he were eager to peel back the layers of myth and legend.
The coachman scratched the scruff on his chin, the motion almost reflexive as he pondered the question. "Well, there's not much I can say, at least not in a way that would make much sense to someone who's never been up north," he began cautiously, as if measuring each word. "Y'see, humans don't really speak the language of dragons—at least, not the younger ones. But all dragons of the north answer to one master: the Dragon Lord of the North."
"The Dragon Lord of the North?" Silas's voice was soft, but there was a flicker of interest behind the calm, controlled tone.
The coachman nodded, leaning slightly in his seat as if he were about to share something that not many knew, his eyes darting from Silas to the darkening horizon ahead. "Aye, as his title suggests, he's the strongest of them all—the mightiest dragon in all the icy lands.