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. There's an old legend, one that goes back to the founding days of the Northern Kingdom. Back then, the land wasn't always the frozen wasteland it is now."
Silas's brow arched slightly, though he remained silent, encouraging the man to continue.
"They say the Northern Kingdom was once a great land," the coachman said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper as if the very mention of the tale might summon ancient forces. "A place with seasons, like any other. The summers were warm, and the people thrived off crops that grew in the fields. They had trade routes, powerful alliances with other kingdoms. Prosperity, y'know? But all that changed the day the Dragon Lord of the North appeared."
Silas shifted slightly in his seat, his fingers twitching beneath the heavy folds of his robe. "What happened?"
The coachman's face darkened as he spoke, as though recounting a tragedy. "The land turned into a changeless winter overnight. The warm winds stopped. The fields that once gave life to bountiful crops never saw another harvest. Rivers froze, and the people… well, the people grew afraid. The chill wasn't just in the air; it was in their hearts too. Everything—trade, alliances, relationships—everything crumbled under the weight of that fear. It's said that with each passing year, the winter grew colder, the snow thicker, and hope, well… it just disappeared."
He paused, glancing at Silas out of the corner of his eye as though gauging his reaction. Silas remained impassive, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his hood, though his silence urged the man to continue.
"Of course," the coachman added, trying to lighten the mood with a nervous chuckle, "it's probably just a story. I mean, there's no way a single dragon could change the entire climate of a region, right?" He forced a laugh, though the unease in his voice betrayed his doubt. "It'd take more than a dragon, even one as powerful as the Dragon Lord of the North, to reshape the very air we breathe, to steal the warmth from the land."
Silas's lips curled into a slight smile, though whether it was one of amusement or something darker, the coachman couldn't tell. "Perhaps," Silas murmured, his voice carrying a cryptic edge, "but legends often have a way of holding more truth than we give them credit for."
The coachman shifted in his seat, clearly unsettled by Silas's response but unwilling to dwell on it any longer. He cast his gaze forward, where the distant outline of the Northern Kingdom's capital began to take shape through the veil of snow. The journey was nearing its end, and the cold air grew sharper as the sun began to sink below the horizon, casting an eerie twilight over the icy expanse.
The two men rode in silence for the rest of the journey, the only sound the rhythmic crunch of hooves on snow and the distant howl of the northern winds. Silas's thoughts drifted as he gazed out from beneath his hood, his mind turning over the legends and the strange power said to lurk within the northern realms. The Dragon Lord of the North… an ancient, unseen force that could reshape the land itself. A creature of such might, yet still bound by the old stories. Was it real? And if so, how could one command such power?
"We're here, stranger," the coachman's voice cut through Silas's thoughts, pulling him back to the present. "The capital of the Northern Kingdom."
Silas lifted his head slightly, peering through the snow-laden air at the sight before them. The city loomed ahead, a fortress of ice and stone rising out of the frozen wilderness like a monument to defiance against nature itself. From outside the towering walls, the capital appeared as a bastion of cold, pale light reflecting off the snow-covered battlements. The stone-grey walls, thick and ancient, stretched high into the frigid air, their surfaces rimed with frost, etched by the relentless bite of the northern winds.
Massive iron gates stood closed, guarded by soldiers wrapped in heavy furs, their breath visible in the icy air. High above the city, half-hidden in a perpetual veil of snow, was the royal palace. Its towering spires, cloaked in layers of ice and frost, rose like jagged teeth into the darkening sky, disappearing into the storm clouds that never seemed to part.
Banners, their edges stiff with frost, fluttered in the icy wind. The cold was almost palpable, as if the very air itself resisted warmth, keeping the city locked in an eternal winter.
Silas took it all in, his eyes scanning the fortress-like city with quiet intensity. "Quite the fortress," he said softly, more to himself than to the coachman. His tone was neutral, but there was a subtle undercurrent of something deeper—anticipation, perhaps. Or was it something darker?
"Aye," the coachman replied, his voice hushed as he brought the carriage to a slow halt. "The North doesn't welcome visitors easily. Best keep your wits about you, stranger. The cold's the least of your worries in these parts."