The air on the slopes of the White Dragon Mountains was thin and sharp, carrying the biting chill of eternal snow and the ancient scent of frozen stone. Below the jagged peaks, the landscape was a desolate expanse of grey granite and stunted pines that clung to the cliffs like skeletal fingers. This was a place where the wind did not merely blow; it shrieked through the narrow ravines, a mournful sound that locals claimed were the cries of the restless spirits who haunted the forbidden heights. For centuries, these slopes had been avoided by the people of Astraia, labeled as cursed ground where no life could flourish and no treasure could be found.
Constantine led his horse through a narrow pass, his boots crunching against the frost-covered gravel. Behind him, Elena followed on a sturdy
