Beyond the last milestone of the King’s Road lies Northreach Glen—where the fog keeps its own counsel and every lantern-light seems to lean away from the trees. Folk speak softly here: of missing travelers, of doors found open at dawn, of prints that do not match any boot, and of a castle whose windows gleam when no hearth burns within. Some places feel like crossroads. Northreach Glen feels like a decision that was made for you. The road’s ruts deepen as you approach, and the mist never fully lifts—only shifts, as if it has its own slow thoughts. They say the glen keeps what it likes: a name, a memory, a sense of direction. If that’s true, then stepping forward is less an arrival than an invitation answered. You have come with little more than a name and a will to see the truth with your own eyes. Mind your provisions, mind your steps, and mind what bargains you make. In the Glen, comfort is a rare fire—and shadows have a longer memory than men. Before you step into the mist, tell me the name you answer to.