Chapter 111: The Kalamma River I
The pair of travelers crossed the bridge soon after that. Atilla held his breath as they reached the edge, and he immediately felt a ripple of energy when they stepped onto the other side.
The air felt different here, and the further they walked, the more Ceremus could sense they weren't alone. Though the landscape didn't appear much different from where they came, there was something majestic about the way the snow fell from the sky—as if the snowflakes were clearer, and the snow itself was whiter.
The trees curved beautifully, their branches decorated with drops of icicles. The weather was less chilly on this side, and Atilla could feel a breath of warmth permeating his body. Though there was still something eerie about the place, perhaps due to the serene energy surrounding them, it truly resembled a wonderland—a winter wonderland.
The unsettling quiet pressed down on them, broken only by the soft crunch of their boots against the pristine snow. Ceremus moved forward with measured steps, his sharp gaze sweeping the landscape.
A sudden rustling echoed from the trees ahead, and Atilla's hand went straight to his sword. His pulse quickened, and his grip tightened on the hilt. But Ceremus merely lifted a hand, a silent command to wait.
From the shadows of the trees, a figure emerged. Cloaked in white, they blended seamlessly into the snow-covered forest, their presence more ghostly than human. The figure's hood obscured their face.
Atilla swallowed as he wondered whether the person standing before them was friend or foe.
The figure took a step forward, their voice carrying through the cold air like a whisper of wind.
"You stand at the threshold of sacred ground," they said, their tone neither welcoming nor hostile. "State your purpose, or remain as a wanderer till the end of your days."
Ceremus met the stranger's gaze—or what he could see of it beneath the hood. Not one for idle chatter, he immediately stated their purpose.
"We wish to find someone," he said simply.