The day had broken frigid and gray, and a chill wind rolled down off the Tiger's Fangs formation. Hirc trudged slowly down the Kings’ Road, wrapped up in his

time-worn traveling gear. Before him, the fertile Theigh valley stretched out with its farms and orchards—and some twenty miles further, his destination:

the capital city of Nahrstrom. Glancing back along the way he had come, Hirc heard the city of Orgun begin to come alive, the sounds of the market a murmur in his ears. If, on a clear day, he was to stand atop the city walls, he would see Nahrstrom as a faint smear on the horizon. His bones creaked with exhaustion and cold. It had only been five days since he departed the capital, and yet he longed wearily for the comfort of home. Never should have left, he thought despondently as he clutched at a tarnished silver locket that hung around his neck. His heart skipped a beat when he flicked the cover open, and a lump formed in his throat. The pictures dredged up a wave of pain and haunting memories of his lost loves—their visages forever remembered in the locket, evoking both joy and a deep sorrow. An elegantly dressed she-goat, her regal posture and delicate features reflecting a sense of grace and dignity. The strokes of the artist's brush fell far short of properly expressing her noble yet mischievous spirit, but it was all he had. The second painting portrayed a smaller, younger she-goat adorned in a vibrant yellow dress with ribbons intricately woven into her mane. Cradling the pendant, Hirc’s eyes became drawn as he once more saw the innocence and playfulness in his daughter’s expression.

Imala… Kaya…

He remembered when his wife and daughter had sat for the portraits before the war… His paw started trembling as he dolefully caressed the locket, and his vision misted over softly. Eventually, Hirc released his breath while pulling the straps of his pack tighter. It would take at least ten hours to reach the city gates from there, and that was only if the weather held out. Taking another deep breath, he stepped off, his hooves clopping lightly against the well-worn slabs of the Kings’ Road. If you knew where to look, you could spot the sigil of the king who had first laid down the stone—at least, until the Jaws got around to erasing them; they seemed determined to destroy Karanor's history and replace it with one more to their liking.

Spruce trees rose tall, lining the road in clumps—though far more numerous were the stumps of those that the League had cut down for firewood during the war. Hirc cast off those thoughts with a violent jerk of his head; he needed to keep a clear mind. The road was clearly visible, despite the foot of fresh snow that hadn’t been there when he’d last passed through, but many a mammal had taken a nasty fall on such ice-slicked stone. He held on through the level stretch of the road for several miles, crossed a wide flat of ice berries, and dropped down into a shallow depression once called Blumau's Spring. The area had been dry for over a century, but he had heard tales of when it had served as a watering hole for the caravans coming up from Vornstrom.

Hirc sighed loudly. Imala and he had been saving up for a proper wagon like a Vardo—not some lighter cart meant for moving goods a short way, but one suited to a traveling merchant. He kicked at a clump of snow; that dream had died along with all else he cared for.

"Deiken, take every last one of those fanged bastards," he spat bitterly.

Over the following two hours, the farmlands on either side of the road gradually gave way to woodlands with large stands of old-growth trees; he knew he was coming upon the Ötztal. A steady rise in the land became apparent, and in the distance, he could see a large hill with a conical top, slightly flattened at the summit.

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"Xwaadúu," he muttered quietly as he started to climb. The road here was steep, about the steepest a wagon could handle. After half an hour's plodding, Hirc crested the hill, stopped, and released a great sigh; he’d come to what’d once been the bustling inn of Xwaadúu had stood there for nearly five hundred years, welcoming traders from across the Cradle. Its red roof and blue doors made it recognizable from miles away. Now, all that was left were the remains of its great hall, its massive timbers blackened by flame, its stone floor littered with slate from the collapsed roof. An eerie silence hung heavily, broken only by the far-off cawing of crows and the occasional gust of wind rustling through the ruins. His heart sank as he surveyed the scene, feeling a profound melancholy and nostalgia for the inn's former glory. Many times, he had stopped there before the war, often delivering spices or taking a consignment of other goods to Orgun and beyond. He had met Imala here, had proposed here… He sighed and pushed the memory away.

Ahead of him, the entryway yawned like an open mouth. Once more steadying his nerves, he stepped into the darkness beyond the doorway, the resounding echo of his hooves filling the air as he occasionally kicked away remnants of charred wood and cracked tiles. The acrid odor of ash choked the air, causing his nose to scrunch up. Nevertheless, he ignored the smell and trudged across the floor.

The once-grand entrance hall lay in ruins; looters had not been kind to the brass fittings; nor had time been to the intricate carvings, now only barely visible on the wooden columns. Soot and cobwebs coated every surface, reinforcing the uncanny atmosphere of abandonment—and so did the dense wafts of mildew and old smoke that stung at Hirc’s nostrils and eyes.

Dim light filtered through the shattered windows, providing little solace as he ventured further into the gloom. The sound of his hoofsteps echoed ominously, creating an otherworldly symphony with each step. Occasionally, a loose flagstone would shift beneath his weight, causing him to pause momentarily before continuing his exploration. All around him, blackened timber and charred debris scattered across the floor, serving as a haunting reminder of what had been—now only the remnants of a long-forgotten fire. Despite the desolation, he pressed on, driven by an intense curiosity, his every pace a testament to his determination.

Hirc leaned against a sturdier part of the bar, allowing his fingers to trace the ornate engravings that adorned its surface. Memories flooded his mind as he recalled the nights spent there, sharing stories and laughter with fellow travelers. The bar had been a place of camaraderie, where strangers become friends over a shared drink. The innkeeper, a massive elk named Korran Ghara, whose family had run the inn for centuries, had always been ready with a quick witticism or refill. But now, the bar stood as a lonesome testament to the inn's prior valor. The shelves that had once held an array of spirits and liquors were now reduced to shards and splinters. Hirc's heart ached at the sight, mourning the loss of a cherished gathering place.

We lost so much—and for what?

Silently, he placed a single coin on the bar.

"To you, and may your purse be full and your cup never run dry," he whispered, offering the traditional traveler’s toast before pushing away from the counter. As he continued his exploration, Hirc's gaze fell upon the remnants of the inn's hearth. It had once been the heart of the inn, providing warmth and comfort to weary travelers on many cold winter nights. Old Otenn would stand by the fire, fiddle in paw, and croon out old ballads or, if he was well into his cups, bawdy songs that would make the ladies blush. Now, it lay cold and lifeless, stones filmed in soot from the inferno that had consumed the building. Lit by the Jaws when Korran couldn't provision them. He had heard the stories; they had tied him and his family to the pillars and burned the inn down around them. Unable to bear the weight of his memories any longer, Hirc made his way to the back of the building, where the sleeping quarters had once stood.

The rooms, similarly destroyed, had once been a refuge for tired souls seeking respite from their journeys. Hirc's mind wandered to the nights he had spent there, lying beside Imala, their bodies intertwined as they whispered promises of forever.

The loss was immeasurable, the destruction irreparable. The inn had been more than just a building; it had been a symbol of hope and connection, a beacon in a world consumed by chaos. With a heavy heart, Hirc turned to leave, his hoofsteps reverberating through the empty halls. And as he returned to the fading sunlight, he wondered if anyone would ever rebuild. But he doubted it. There would be no rebuilding, no revival—what would be the point?

What is the point?