The maid then came out after she prepared the hot water, and Jolthar thanked her and got in.
Jolthar walked into the bathroom, shed his trousers and got into the tub.
The hot water cascaded over his muscled frame, washing away the night's exertions. As steam clouded the air, Jolthar's mind drifted toward the northern mountains—toward his purpose.
His grandmother's words rang in his head about the elves and the mountains.
When he emerged, a towel wrapped around his waist, he found maids had delivered the milk he'd requested.
He drank deeply, aware of Cleora's eyes following his movements as he dressed in his travelling garments—leather reinforced, designed for both protection and the freedom of movement his swordsmanship demanded.
"Leaving already?" Cleora asked, propping herself against the pillows.
"Yes," Jolthar confirmed, fastening the final buckle on his sword belt.
"Days," he replied, approaching the bed. "Perhaps a week."
Cleora nodded, understanding the necessity.
She had known from the beginning that Jolthar was not a man who could be contained within mansion walls for long, regardless of their mutual desires.
He leaned down, claiming her lips in a kiss that carried promises of return. His hand cupped her face, thumb tracing the line of her jaw with surprising tenderness from a man whose hands had ended countless lives.
"Until then," he whispered against her mouth before straightening.
Cleora watched him leave; a hint of sadness crossed her face.
The corridors were busier now as Jolthar strode through them, his presence commanding reflexive bows from servants despite his ambiguous position in the household. He searched for Nora, feeling an obligation to smooth over the morning's awkwardness, but the girl had made herself scarce.
Instead, he found Roblan in the study, the young man poring over ledgers with the seriousness of one who understood his future responsibilities to the barony.
"I'll be gone for a time," Jolthar informed him without preamble.
Roblan looked up, unsurprised. "Training?"
A simple nod of acknowledgement passed between them—respect from one warrior to another, though Roblan's battles were not on the scale of Jolthar's.
"I'll inform Nora if she asks," Roblan said, returning to his work.
Outside, the stables opened onto a separate section where a single beast was housed apart from the horses. As Jolthar approached, a rumbling purr vibrated through the air—Maelruth sensing her rider's approach.
The drake's scales gleamed crimson in the morning light, her serpentine neck extending in greeting. No ordinary mount she was.
"She's been restless without you, my lord," said the stableman, backing away cautiously as he released the drake from her enclosure.
Jolthar placed a hand on Maelruth's flank, feeling the heat radiating through her scales. The beast king's power stirred within him, the green energy forming momentary connections between his consciousness and the drake's simpler mind.
"She's eager to fly," Jolthar said, swinging himself onto her back with practised ease.
The saddle, custom-crafted to accommodate Maelruth's unusual physiology, creaked beneath his weight. With a subtle command—part spoken, part conveyed through the green energy—the drake unfurled her massive wings.
A powerful thrust sent them airborne, the mansion shrinking rapidly beneath them as Maelruth climbed into the morning sky.
Jolthar leaned forward, his body moving in harmony with the drake's.
Below, servants and household guards paused to watch their ascent, a sight that still inspired awe despite the months Jolthar had spent in residence.
As they banked north toward the mountains, Jolthar allowed his thoughts to wander to the complicated web of obligations and emotions that defined his existence. His relationship with Cleora provided a temporary anchor, but he harboured no illusions that it could last indefinitely.
The shadow of his grandmother, Johamma Kaezhlar, stretched long across his life even in her absence.
Her helping him made matters more difficult for him to hate her. And the two times she did, it was major life-changing events. Jolthar pondered over intentions when the last time she came. She seemed remorseful and genuinely concerned for him, but he couldn't shake off all the things that happened to him because of her ignorance.
Maelruth grumbled as she flew a little higher, up in the clouds, and it brought back Jolthar from his thoughts. He looked at the orange radiance around him; the silent white clouds were like a soft cushion as Maelruth flew slowly. The peaceful scenery helped calm his mind, allowing him to focus on the present moment rather than dwelling on the past. Jolthar took a deep breath, pushing those thoughts aside.
For now, his goal was to go to the elves in the northern mountains.
Two days of relentless flight carried Jolthar and Maelruth to the far reaches of the Empire's northern territories. Maelruth was quite sturdy and showed no signs of fatigue, despite the long journey.
Jolthar patted the neck, appreciating its endurance.
He took short intervals between the journey, hunting for himself and the drake, keeping them full.
As he was nearing the north lands, the wind was turning colder.
He passed over a small region called Twildows, which was governed by a Baron. From his bird's-eye view, he could tell that it was a small castle town with few residents.
Maelruth didn't stop there and continued to fly towards the chain mountains.
Each wing beat took them deeper into increasingly frigid air, the landscape below transforming gradually from fertile plains to sparse taiga, and finally to the white expanse of perpetual snow. Jolthar leaned close against Maelruth's scaled neck, grateful for the drake's natural heat that radiated through his riding leathers.
"There," Jolthar murmured, his breath forming clouds in the frigid air as he pointed toward the imposing mountain range that stretched across the horizon like the spine of some ancient, slumbering beast.
Maelruth banked in response, her keen senses already locked onto their destination. The Chain Mountains loomed larger with each passing moment—a formidable barrier of stone and ice that few dared to traverse.
But it was not the range itself that drew Jolthar's attention. His eyes remained fixed on one particular peak that seemed to stand apart from its brethren.
Even from a distance, there was something unnatural about its formation.
Unlike the jagged, weather-worn peaks surrounding it, Chelheim possessed an unsettling symmetry—broad at the base, narrowing toward what could almost be interpreted as shoulders, crowned with a misshapen protrusion that bore an uncanny resemblance to a hooded head.
The mountain was entirely encased in ice that gleamed with an eerie blue luminescence even under the clouded sky.
"Land before the mountain," Jolthar commanded, and Maelruth descended in a controlled spiral.
The drake's powerful limbs crunched through the snow as they touched down, standing before the mountain that had featured so prominently in his grandmother's cryptic instructions.
Jolthar dismounted, his boots sinking ankle-deep into fresh powder. Follow current ɴᴏᴠᴇʟs on novel⦿fire.net
Despite the early summer season that would have brought warmth to the southern territories, here winter maintained an eternal grip.
The cold bit through his clothing with predatory intensity.
Johamma's words echoed in his memory: "Mount Chelheim guards secrets meant only for those who seek that elven race. The path will reveal itself only to those touched by chaos."
Jolthar stood motionless, studying the mountain's imposing façade.
Mount Chelheim had a lot of stories to its name.
Some say that it was a man named Chelheim being a warrior frozen in time, a guardian created by forgotten gods to protect something of immeasurable value.
Some versions claimed the mountain itself was the petrified remains of a primordial being who had challenged the gods and suffered eternal punishment for his hubris.
Whatever the truth, Jolthar felt nothing—no pull, no instinctive understanding of how to proceed. The mountain remained silent and unyielding before him.
He looked around the area, and he could see nothing; snow was piled up everywhere.
"What am I missing here?" he muttered, frustration edging his voice.
Maelruth shifted restlessly beside him, her serpentine neck swivelling as she scanned their surroundings for potential threats. The drake sensed his unease, responding to it with heightened vigilance.
After several fruitless minutes of observation, Jolthar realized the solution might lie within rather than without.
He extended his right hand, palm upward, and focused inward. The chaos energy—his fourth and most volatile power—responded immediately.
Black-violet light swirled around his fingers, pulsing with unpredictable rhythms and casting strange, shifting shadows across the snow.
The effect was instantaneous and profound.
His vision altered dramatically—the mundane world receding as another reality superimposed itself over his perception. His eyes blazed with the same black-violet glow that encompassed his hand, and suddenly, he could see what had been invisible before: a pathway of softly glowing footprints leading directly into the mountain's face.
"There it is," he whispered, a mixture of awe and trepidation colouring his words.
The path appeared ancient, worn by the passage of countless feet over millennia, yet somehow both physically present and ethereal.
Without hesitation, Jolthar began following the luminous trail, Maelruth padding silently behind him. The path led them between towering ice formations that resembled frozen waterfalls, through narrow passages where the wind howled with almost sentient malice, until they reached what appeared to be a solid wall of ice.
Yet the glowing footprints continued directly through this apparent barrier, vanishing into its crystalline depths.