The journey to The Wyvern Hills was anything but uneventful. The rolling hills stretched out like an endless sea of green and gray, dappled with patches of thorny azure lilies that swayed in the wind like sentinels guarding the valley. It was a stunning sight—picturesque, even—but the heavy winds that roared across the slopes were far from welcoming.
Alaric held the reins tightly with one hand, the other wrapped possessively around Rosalind's waist as they rode atop their single horse. The wind whipped against their faces, carrying with it a biting chill that made it feel as though they were riding through a storm rather than a serene valley.
"By the gods, these winds are relentless!" Rosalind shouted over the howling gusts, her crimson hair flowing wildly behind her. She pressed back against Alaric for warmth, though the movement only widened the mischievous smirk on his face.
