Blood drips from my hand into the snow. Through labored breaths, I shout out his name, but no response echoes through the trees back to me. I stagger forward following a crimson trail to a clearing where across the way is a cliff. I fall to my knees looking over the edge. I flinch as I pull my hand away from my side and see just how bad my wound is. The air is so cold. It stirs my insides, makes me cough out blood. I stand, more determined than ever, and March back to the forest. He is gone - there’s enough evidence for that - but I am not done here yet. I refuse to give in before the cold takes my feet. I will fight for every breath, for every step until I find those frozen doors behind which lies untold mysteries. It’s out here somewhere in this forest, and I will find it.

…

I lived in a small town called Ituria near the northern forests. Rarely did travelers darken our doors, but on occasion we had visitors. Most of them dreamed of traversing the frozen forest not far from town, but their blindness guaranteed a slow death. And so for years I made a pretty penny keeping them alive long enough to make it back to town, gleeful and wishing to go again. If they only knew the horrors that lay just an arms throw away from where I led them.

When the seasons brought on a more bitter cold, I began turning travelers away. Nights grew longer, and the dangers of the forest grew with it. Most adventurers understood the risks and left me alone. Others weren’t as kind. One man, however, stood apart from the rest. He was neither filled with anger or sadness when I told him I would not guide him through the forest. His eyes were a flame of curiosity.

“Oliver Finn’s the name,” he told me. He was lanky and young, much different from the other travelers I’d met. He told me about a map, and not just any old map - one that revealed the location of an ancient castle forgotten with time.

“Legend, that’s all that is,” I scoffed and swigged my ale.

“No,” he replied, “it exists - it does! And I can prove it. This map wasn’t just laying around in a field somewhere, I found it in a cave under the Gray Mountains. And it was no troll cave. The walls were hewn smooth and words were carved into them in a language I could not understand. I believe it to be an ancient settlement of the Sinthuls who left this wretched place after their calamity. You must believe me - who knows what treasure awaits us at the end of our journey!”

It was a convincing story, and I believed it.