Chapter 65: Fireside Tales

Dorian stretched his arms over his head as he and Tache walked back toward the camp, the lingering heat of the hot spring still clinging to their skin. He flexed his fingers, rolled his shoulders, and even hopped lightly on his feet.

"Wow," Dorian muttered, almost in disbelief. "I feel light as a feather."

Tache laughed, shaking his damp hair out. "Yeah, it’s always good to visit a hot spring once in a while. It resets you."

As they made their way down the path, the evening chill seeped back in, but it wasn’t unpleasant—just a stark contrast to the warmth they’d basked in moments before.

Tache glanced at the distant snow-capped mountains, their jagged peaks barely visible under the darkening sky. "You know… it’s weird if you really think about it."

Dorian raised an eyebrow. "What is?"

Tache gestured around them. "The North. We’ve got some of the best scenery in the world. It’s harsh, but even the cold has a beauty to it." He kicked a loose rock down the path. "Our ores and minerals are top quality. We get winters colder than death, but we also have hot springs that could melt your bones in relaxation. Hell, we even have volcanoes that keep parts of the land warm, but people say one day, they’ll wipe us out."

Dorian smirked. "You sound ridiculously biased about your homeland."

Tache grinned, unapologetic. "Damn right, I am. You southerners wouldn’t understand."

Dorian laughed, rolling his eyes. "Alright, alright, I’ll admit—you’ve got some impressive landscapes. But I’ll wait until I’ve seen more of the world before I say which place is the best."

Tache patted his shoulder, grinning. "Spoken like a true bard."

…

By the time they reached the camp, the rich scent of roasted boar filled the air.

Ralnor sat by the crackling fire, meticulously carving the meat, his massive hands working with surprising delicacy. He had already set aside portions for later, a small pile of seasoned cuts cooling beside him.

Seeing the leftover meat, Dorian grabbed his bag and tucked the spare portions inside, the magical space swallowing them up without adding an ounce of weight.

Bennett watched with thinly veiled awe, arms crossed. "You’re really lucky, you know?"

Dorian glanced up. "Huh?"

Bennett nodded toward the sling bag. "To get a magical bag from Viscount Halrik himself."

Dorian smirked. "Well, what can I say? I’m charming."

Tache snorted. "Oh, please. You just happened to be at the right place at the right time."

Dorian winked. "And that’s half of what being a bard is, my friend."

As they settled around the fire, plates filled with succulent boar meat, Bennett chewed thoughtfully before looking at Dorian. "I gotta ask—where the hell did you get that spice? This is unbelievable."

Dorian took a bite of his meal, savoring the rich, smoky flavor, then leaned back with a satisfied sigh.

"Ah," he said, grinning. "That, my dear Bennett, is a story."

He dusted off his hands, reached for his lute, and with a slow, deliberate strum, began to spin the tale of Skaernsvall.

The firelight danced across Dorian’s face as he painted the scene with his words, weaving the atmosphere of the ghostly village into the night air.

He spoke of the quiet, eerie roads, where no footsteps lingered and no voices carried beyond hushed whispers. He described the perfect produce, the pristine goods, how every item in the market seemed untouched by time—fresh as if plucked that very morning.

Bennett, hooked, leaned forward. "You mean to tell me… everything in that place was pristine?"

Dorian nodded slowly, letting the tension build. "Not a single blemish. Every apple glowed like it had been bathed in sunlight. Every loaf of bread smelled as if it had just come out of the oven."

He let the words hang before lowering his voice.

"But there was something else."

Bennett frowned. "Something else?"

Dorian ran his fingers over the strings, the soft melody whispering in the background.

"The people—they all seemed… detached. Like they were there—but not really there."

Bennett shuddered. "And you just walked through it?"

Dorian chuckled. "Well, at first, yeah. I didn’t even realize anything was off until I tried to stay longer."

Selyse narrowed her eyes. "What happened?"

Dorian tapped the gem on his pendant, the red stone catching the firelight. "This thing froze. I mean, colder than ice. The moment I stepped out of the village, it went back to normal."

Bennett whistled lowly. "Damn. Sounds like you barely got out of there."

Dorian grinned. "Guess so. But hey—at least I got some spices out of it."

Tache raised an eyebrow. "Wait—you bought something from that place?"

Dorian took another bite of his seasoned boar, chewing slowly before swallowing. Then, with a carefree smile, he said,

"Yep."

The fire crackled as they sat in thoughtful silence, each contemplating the strange tale.

Ralnor, as usual, kept his thoughts to himself, simply eating in silence.

Selyse shook her head. "You have the weirdest luck, bard."

Tache chuckled. "More like the worst survival instincts."

Dorian rolled his eyes. "Oh, please. I’m alive, aren’t I?"

Selyse smirked. "Barely."

Bennett sighed, leaning back. "Well, either way—I’d love to get my hands on some of that spice."

Dorian grinned. "You’d have to find Skaernsvall first."

Bennett shivered. "Yeah… no thanks."

They laughed, the mood lightening once again.

With their bellies full and their minds filled with stories, they settled in for the night, the fire warming their bodies as the Northern sky stretched endlessly above them.

Tomorrow, they would reach Tadon.

And who knew what stories awaited them there?