Our mother was dying for a long and agonizing time. It didn't start a week ago, not a month ago, and not even a year. An incurable malady consumed her mercilessly, and even the most prominent and gifted healers in the world wouldn't have been able to save her from this disease. It was a sickness that day by day devoured her. The flame that burned for many years turned a strong woman with a brave and passionate heart into a pitiful semblance of a living being. She was only alive because she could still breathe, see, hear, and even speak from time to time. But yesterday, that consuming fire finally went out. Yesterday, the pain came to an end. Yesterday, she took her painful breath of the stale air in her room for the very last time. She departed into the unknown and beyond the grasp of humans, freed from the captivity of her body, following our father, who was just as brave, who knew what it meant to truly live. Death knocked on our doors.

  I was devastated, but one thought was able to bring me some kind of comfort. Deep inside, I hoped that now, having rid herself of the suffocating chains of her diseased body, she had finally found peace of mind. Perhaps she had found a place where she could heal from her anxieties. Maybe she reunited with our father there, and now they are together again, after years of difficult separation.

  Our parents were courageous travelers, explorers. They lived to discover something new, and for them, there were no barriers. They couldn't imagine their lives without the road because the spirit of travel and exploration lived in their brave, wild, and free hearts. Once upon a time, their hearts were fortunate enough to find each other. Together, they saw so much that few among the people who lived have seen. They conquered mountains and sailed the ocean inhabited by incredible creatures, descriptions of which even the greatest literary masters' pens cannot fully capture. These creatures are dangerous, yet at the same time, uniquely whimsical and beautiful.

  Nineteen years ago, these brave wanderers named Agda and Axel, had their first child — a daughter named Hilda. A beautiful and melodious name they gave her. It is the name of a mountain peak far in the north, whose snow-capped summit hides in white clouds. Two years later, their second offspring came into the world, this time a boy named Kay. I have often asked my mother what my name means. Was I named after one of the proud and mighty peaks like Hilda? My mother always said that my name means eternity — a time that never ends. People can come and go, bid farewell without thinking of ever returning. But time flows and will continue to flow, like an eternal river without a source or mouth. Before, I couldn't fully grasp what it meant. I pondered and contemplated, gazing at the infinitely distant stars from my room's window on warm summer nights. I tried to find some answers in so many old and wise books.

  Agda and Axel spent many years in their travels. In one of them, they discovered a cozy and tranquil, even somewhat sleepy village among green firs, on fertile plains that nature generously endowed upon its grateful inhabitants. It was here, in the village, alongside kind-hearted people who had never seen mountains up close or sailed the azure seas, that they decided to stay. They found the perfect place to raise their children. The parents wanted to give their children their own home — a place they could always return to from their journeys, a place where they would always be welcome. The children themselves would decide whether to embark on an adventure through unknown and vast lands or spend their entire lives in this corner of the world without worries or dangers.

  Hilda was eight years old, and I was six, already understanding a lot. Our parents decided to embark on their final journey, to undertake their last expedition to distant lands beyond the sea, canyons, and forests. The goal of their journey became the vast and unexplored territories beyond the icy Frost Peaks. According to ancient legends and stories, crafted in the times when the world was much younger, there, beneath the eternal layers of ice and snow, lie buried the ancient iron cities of powerful giant beings that vanished a thousand years ago. Agda and Axel dreamed of these distant sanctuaries of the most incredible wonders that could ever exist. They debated and gathered their courage, planning for a long time until one beautiful day when they decided on this final venture. And they left us, me and Hilda, under the care of a farmer named Hedma Hoyd who was our family's closest acquaintance and friend. Fate had blessed Hedma with two wonderful daughters. The first, the eldest, passed away in infancy, succumbing to an infection, while the younger girl, Irma, was only a year older than me. My sister and I stayed at home while our parents departed one sunny morning, promising to return to us victorious in their endeavors. Filled with enthusiasm, they left the village. I remember how my sister and I waited for them every day and every night. But our father did not return from this journey. He perished somewhere along the way, and his body became prey to merciless scavengers in the dark earthy burrows. However, our mother's fate was hardly much easier - she became infected with a mysterious disease that carries many names, yet there is no cure for it. In the books that fill our home, this ailment is referred to as a cruel fate leading to the grave. And that's exactly what it is. The worst part is that a person with this affliction can live for many years, gradually weakening and becoming less and less like a living human being. Our mother endured for eleven very long years. At first, she believed in a cure. Or wanted to believe, for the sake of her children. But in the end, she had to come to terms with the grim inevitability.

  Yesterday, she completed her journey. I will never forget the expression on her emaciated face. She clutched my shoulder, squeezing painfully tight, and I could not suspect that in her semi-lifeless state, my mother could possess so much strength. It seemed like all her remaining life energy was unleashed in that action. I shall never forget those mad eyes. Perhaps she will still visit me in dreams. In nightmares. I held her hand in that very moment when this once beautiful and energetic woman took her final breath, after which she froze, forever.

  Today, at sunset, we burned her body. It is a ritual, a local tradition. The whole village knew us. The whole village gathered. We did not go against the ancient custom that is revered here. A spacious clearing spread a mile away from the village. It is here that the bodies of people are given to the funeral fire, and when the bonfire burns down and the deceased turns to ashes mixed with dust, the remains are placed in a tight sack made of wool, which is then laid to rest in the damp earth. A stake is driven into the ground above the burial site, to which a wooden plank with the name of the one whose remains lie beneath is attached. Of course, my sister and I received help in preparing the place for the cremation. Logs and a little hay, nothing more. We covered our mother's body with a thick gray fabric. We placed her body in its final resting place. Hilda, as the eldest daughter, lit the fire. Tears stood in her eyes, but not a single one rolled down her cheeks. The flames of the funeral pyre reflected in my sister's pupils. I, too, wanted to hold back my tears, but perhaps I wasn't as strong-willed. I was more of a bookworm, while Hilda was always as strong as our mother. A true warrior she was.

  The village leader, Hivia Dey, a tall woman with hair as white as snow, delivered a short speech before the torch touched the log.

  "Agda is no longer with us," Hivia spoke in a somber voice. "Alas, she has departed... She was a good woman. She never denied anyone help... Let us hope that wherever Agda finds herself after her... passing, she no longer feels any pain."

  The entire village listened attentively, each person wearing a stone mask of sorrow, which I am certain was sincere.

  The tongues of fire soared into the darkening, star-studded sky, reaching a good four feet or more. The logs cracked, creaked, and groaned as they caught fire, and even the dark shroud we had covered the body with ignited. Children came to witness the burning. As soon as the flames blazed, parents hurriedly led their offspring away from the pyre. Gradually, people left, returning to their homes. They had fulfilled their duty. By the time only a few witnesses of the cremation remained, it was as if I had lost the ability to see. Tears formed a dense veil before my eyes, through which the world around me blurred, and I saw the fire as if through a thick layer of dense fog. I grasped my face with my hands. And then I weakly pressed against Hilda's chest, placing my hands on her back. And she placed her hands on my shoulders. I cried. And she did too. Even Hilda couldn't hold back tears over our mother's ashes. We had already lost one parent in the past. Now the second one has left us.

  That's how we stood for some time, silently but feeling each other's support, trying to cope with the pain. People left us alone with our loss. Only Hilda, myself, and the slowly dying fire remained on that funeral clearing. The night chill descended, but we weren't cold by the fire. And even if a snowstorm had erupted in those moments, it's doubtful that any of us would have paid it any attention. The pain was fresh, and the wounds were open and mercilessly bleeding.

  Soon enough, the stars filled the sky. The bonfire grew smaller. A northern wind blew. If you disregard the crackling of burning logs, a heavy, almost agonizing silence hangs around, making you want to escape as far as possible. It felt as if the entire world had come to a halt.

  "We should go home," Hilda said with a trembling voice. "We need to rest."

  "I don't need rest," I replied. "I want to stay here."

  I clung even tighter to my elder sister. I understood that Hilda was right. We stood a little longer before leaving the fire. There was surely nothing left of our mother's body, flesh, and bones. Well, by morning, she would have turned into ashes, black dust. We would return here to dig a pit and bury the remains. That's how everyone in the village does it. That's what we should do too. It was the first time we had buried someone. Our father's body disappeared thousands of miles from home. No one gave him a ceremonial funeral fire. Only bare rocks, perhaps, became witnesses to his mournful demise. Or unknown creatures from the depths of the earth. We will never know, probably for the best.

  I couldn't sleep until dawn. I cried, and when the tears dried up, I found myself unable to find any solace. Sleep only caught up with me when the first rays of the new day crept through the wide-open window of my room. I lay with closed eyes, thinking and not understanding what I was thinking about at the same time. Sleep came, plunging me into a three-hour abyss of dark turmoil. I don't remember the dream in detail, but some images and sensations lingered. I was alone, running through gloomy ruins of something that might have once been a city carved out of stone. And behind me, something formless, unimaginable, and terrifying pursued me. I tried to hide from the creature that showed no signs of stopping. I ran and ran, and the grim images of ancient ruins grew, becoming larger and surrounding me from all sides. Just like the horrifying formless shadow behind.

  The next day, my sister and I returned to the burial site and dug a pit where the bonfire had been the day before. We prepared a special bag where we placed what remained of the fire: ash and dust mixed into a powder. And then we entrusted the remains to the earth.

  A small mound of earth grew on that spot. Hilda brushed off her hands covered in soot. All that was left was to plant a wooden plaque in the ground at the burial site. When that task was completed, we sat down on the grass a few feet away from the burial place. This place has always been beautiful. From here, you could see the north, the dark blue mountains with their gleaming icy peaks, especially stunning against the backdrop of a cloudless blue sky. Distant splendor. It's no wonder our parents loved to travel. And one lifetime is not enough for a person to behold every wonder created by nature.

  A few days passed, which were spent coming to terms with the loss. We kept ourselves busy. We had a wonderful cow named Mia. We didn't get any more livestock, seeing no need for it. I remember we used to have horses, but we had to sell them. Nonetheless, we often ride horses at the Hoyd family's place, our good acquaintances who live not far from the village. They have a whole farm with many domestic animals and livestock, including several sturdy horses. The head of the family, Hedma Hoyd, was close to our mother. And for me and Hilda, this woman from the farm became like an aunt.

  I decided to take care of the cow while Hilda started repairing something in the attic. I don't think our attic was leaking or damaged in any way, but there's no better way to cope with the bitterness of loss than work. And time, of course. It takes time, a lot of time, to make things better.

  Neighbors passed by, trying to come in and help. Especially old Olam, who lived in the house next to the mill by the river.

  I read a lot. Our house was always filled with books, which were my main source of knowledge about the world. The window which allowed me to see beyond our simple lives. Hilda also read a lot but spent a considerable amount of time hunting since she was skilled with a bow.

  On the evening of the third day after the funeral, it was March seventeenth, the beginning of spring, we had a conversation. We were sitting on a hill near the village, looking into the distance, breathing in the air, simply relaxing after another day. At one point, Hilda looked at me with her piercing blue eyes and spoke solemnly.

  "You know, I don't want to stay in the village."

  "What?" I asked, surprised. "Why?"

  "What are we going to do here?"

  "Live," I replied in a tone as if it were completely obvious. Apparently, it was obvious to me only.

  "Kay, I don't want to live in this little village. I don't want to stay here."

  "And what will you do?" I asked.

  Sister paused briefly. She took a deep breath. I felt something crawling on my palm, moving with tiny legs, some small insect. It was just a ladybug, but with visible disdain, I brushed the insect off my hand.

  "I want to go on a journey," Hilda replied after a short silence. "Like our parents."

  For the first few moments, I didn't know how to respond. I was sufficiently perplexed.

  "Seriously? And what about the house?"

  "Nothing is holding me here."

  "And what about me, Hilda?"

  "Aren't you going to come with me?"

  I didn't know what to say to that. I lowered my gaze to the grass, where I noticed a few bustling beetles. A light breeze blew, touching my cheeks with the burning-piercing coolness of early spring, reminding me of the recently departed cold winter. That not long ago, the green grass was covered in a blanket of pure white.

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  "I don't know," I honestly answered.

  "Don't you remember the stories told to us when we were just children?" she asked.

  "Of course, I remember. How could I forget?" I replied.

  Could I have said anything else? Of course, but I preferred to remain silent, waiting to hear what Hilda would say. But she didn't continue either. Thus, that topic exhausted itself that evening, although it made me seriously reflect. Once again, I stole sleep from myself. Once again, I fell asleep very late.

  "Don't you remember the stories told to us..."

  Of course, I remember each one of them in detail. How could I forget? Yes, I was young, but our mother never forgot to remind us of the wanderings she and our father had experienced. And every time I listened with great interest. Stories about giant stone ruins of ancient cities erected on high hills, majestic but abandoned monuments from time immemorial when our world was much younger and more pristine. Cliffs with icy peaks. Hilda and I grew up listening to adventure tales. We breathed them in. How could I forget anything? How could I allow myself not to remember?

  And the books? So many books I read, one after another. Stories of brave people, strong enough to defy what seemed beyond their abilities.

  What will our life look like now? Will we become farmers? Perhaps it would be worth having more livestock. This village has everything necessary for life. Warmth in our two-story house in winter, and coolness from the forests in summer. There will always be food and water. What else is needed for comfort? Is there something greater? Something one could wish for?

  A whole week has passed since that memorable conversation. I spent a lot of time contemplating my sister's words. Neighbors didn't stop to express their condolences and offer help. Of course, they will soon stop coming, and everything will inevitably return to normal. But for now, in the eyes of the people, we are poor orphaned children in need of support.

  I continued to recall stories. Stories of the ocean fascinated my imagination. I have never seen the ocean. Only its images in books. A gigantic strip of water stretching to the horizon, seemingly endless, as if the ocean extends to the edge of all existing lands and even beyond. Incredible creatures inhabit it, fish of various sizes and colors. And no one in the world has fully explored it. I thought, while working, while reading, lying in bed, trying to fall asleep, thinking even in the middle of the night, awakened by something. A gust of wind from the closed window or the voices of birds and animals. I thought about possibilities. Of course, I am deeply attached to our ancestral home in the cozy village surrounded by evergreen coniferous trees. But that's not our entire world. It's just a close but very small piece of it. Here are memories. Here is a whole life we had.

  During this week, Hoyds came to our village once. The family, or rather those who survived, Hedma and her daughter Irma, often come to the village for trade. They bring gifts of nature in their cart, generously bestowed by the cultivated land on their farm. Mostly it's corn — the territories are filled with cornfields. But not only that. They take away various interesting things, books, handmade crafts to occupy themselves during the sometimes quite long evenings. My sister and I spent a lot of time with Irma. We were close friends. At some point, our relationship with Irma even became something more than just ordinary friendship.

  The twenty-fourth of March arrived, ten days since the burial. On the eve of that day, I sat by the window in my room, enjoying the evening coolness, leafing through one of the volumes about the history of a distant city, Asenforth, which was founded a thousand years ago on a high hill and became the trading center of the entire region. There are no illustrations in that book, so I let my imagination work. I painted a picture of a mighty city on a massive hill, a city with high walls and battlements, a fortress, houses, and streets. I imagined the people who lived there. The city was surrounded by other mountain peaks, whose lofty summits disappeared into the clouds, and the Sun, rising in the east in the morning, illuminated the lush forests and wide plains. I felt something like sadness, as if nostalgia for places I had never been to. But nevertheless, I had been there multiple times in stories, in books, and in my own fantasies. The world is so vast, and a whole lifetime is not enough to see this world in its entirety, to enjoy each of its enchanting wonders. The distant horizon seemed so alluring, so tempting.

  The next morning, I woke up filled with the desire to talk to my sister. I wanted to tell her just one thing.

  I approached the door of the room. I intended to knock, but noticed that the door wasn't tightly closed, there was a narrow gap. I gently pushed the door — it easily swung open, and I saw my older sister, who was attentively examining the large map that we inherited from our parents, spread out on the wooden floor.

  "Hilda," I said.

  She looked up.

  "Kay?"

  "I came to talk." I closed the door, more out of habit than necessity. Streams of fresh morning air flowed in through the window, bright light poured in, and the rays fell directly on the map on the floor.

  "Hilda, I remember our conversation," I began. "You told me that you don't want to live in this village." She nodded. "You wanted to go on a journey. Like our parents."

  "Yes," the girl said. "I wanted to. And I still do. But I won't leave without you. I have no one else left. I can't go alone, you know that."

  "I know," I scanned the map with my eyes. Mountains, forests, sea, wastelands. So much was captured on it. "I wouldn't let you go, sister. I love you, and I won't let you go alone."

  I took a deep breath.

  "Because we will go together."

  Her expression changed. In her blue, clear-sky eyes, I noticed a sparkle. And that sparkle made my soul feel much warmer.

  "We will go together," I repeated. "Like our parents."

  "Are you sure about this?" Hilda asked. "It's a very dangerous and long journey."

  Once again, images from books and stories came to mind. Yes, there can be no doubt about this. They are calling us, and we must answer.

  "I'm sure," I said.

  We hugged each other tightly, like brother and sister, like the closest of people. It happened in the rays of the morning sun on the twenty-fourth of March.

  The cozy two-story house and attic will remain the place where my sister and I were born, grew up, and came to terms with the fact that those we loved can no longer be with us. Our home will always be here, in this cozy little village. But our brave hearts called us to distant expanses, across the vast sea and through the wastelands, towards the wondrous unknown.

  "Where are we going?" I asked.

  "I've been thinking about fulfilling our parents' last dream," Hilda replied.

  "You mean..."

  "They wanted to venture to the Frost Peaks."

  "And find the legendary ancient city covered in ice," I concluded.

  "That's exactly it."

  With enthusiasm, we began studying the map together. It seemed that we would have to go straight west because tall mountain cliffs loomed to the north, which would undoubtedly pose a serious obstacle. Then we would have to cross the sea and change direction to the northwest on the opposite shore. Eventually, the coastline would recede, and our path would become northern. I couldn't imagine just how far it really was, and what vast expanses lay between us and those very Frost Peaks. To the north of them, on the map, there was a huge white area—nobody knows for sure what lies there. No one has any idea, only legends and very old tales serve as unreliable sources of information. Our parents intended to be the first to explore the hidden secrets of these enigmatic distant lands. If only our father hadn't met such a tragic fate.

  "Now it's our goal," Hilda said. "We'll find what our parents couldn't."

  I squeezed her hand. Since childhood, Hilda and I had been very close and shared so much. We watched fireflies soar towards their starry brethren high in the night sky. We listened to the rustling of grass in the bright moonlight. We raced from one lakeside shore to another, imagining that we were crossing the sea in search of something extraordinary. Would our childhood fantasies become a reality? Could we bring them to life? From now on, everything is in our hands. Our destinies, no one can change them but ourselves. Free-spirited and courageous at heart, thirsting for adventure, nurtured by stories of something grand, something significant. There, beyond the distant horizon, the world awaits.

  Our preparations began immediately. What exactly do we need to take with us? Bags, of course. We'll keep waterskins, water, obviously, provisions for the initial period, and a map. It's impossible to stock up on food for the entire journey. But Hilda is skilled with a bow. She's a pretty accurate archer—many small animals, residents of burrows, can attest to that. Her hunting skills shouldn't be underestimated. I, on the other hand, am also trained in shooting, but I'm not as good at it as my sister.

  I insisted on bringing a pot for boiling and purifying water from the sources we'll encounter along the way. I took care of its safety myself. As a weapon, I brought a dagger with a small, oval-shaped bluish stone, another one of our parents' valuable finds. Hilda also took a knife, a simpler one without a stone, but with an intricate white pattern reminiscent of the intertwining of mysterious plants. The map, of course, we can't do without a map on this journey. Overall, that's the content of our travel bags — not too many things, but the most useful and necessary ones.

  At the beginning of the journey, it's hard to fully grasp how long the road ahead is. But I wouldn't give up the plan for anything. Neither would Hilda.

  We decided to leave without informing anyone. Why bother? In the morning, we will undoubtedly disappear. In the morning, we will step onto the path that should, if we're lucky, lead us to our ultimate destination. The neighbors will undoubtedly ask questions, make various guesses, argue, worry, but ultimately, they will accept it and continue living their ordinary lives, and someday they will forget about us. That's how life goes.

  Nevertheless, we spent our last evening before the journey at the only local inn called "The Green Song." We didn't touch a single mug of ale, but we listened to wonderful singing, enjoyed the taste of simple, pleasant food, and the company. There was a girl named Hertha. She sings the most beautiful songs I've ever heard. Songs about the melting snow revealing green vegetation, about the departure of winter and frost, about the cracks forming on the frozen lakes. Songs about the awakening of spring and how it warms the heart of everyone. I don't know anyone who sings better. I could probably listen to her all night long.

  The villagers were glad about the arrival of my sister and me in "The Green Song". They saw it as a sign that our mourning had come to an end, and we could return to normal life. They understood that the burial of our mother was a very difficult event for us. For children who had laid their parent's remains to rest in the ground.

  Usually, the festivities and music at the tavern end long before midnight, but my sister and I left even earlier than that. It was before Fjor, one of the local farmer-musicians, stopped playing melodies on his old harmonica, and the candlelights in the chandelier ceased to illuminate the spacious hall, and the "Song" fell silent. We left much earlier to get some sleep and gather strength. When we entered our home, the village had already fallen asleep, and only in a couple of houses, apart from the tavern, could one see the flickering candlelight through the windows. We agreed to wake up at dawn and start our journey at the first rays of the new day. Perhaps someone among the locals would notice us. Although we hoped to leave without any witnesses. That would be better.

  I fell asleep with the windows wide open, and all that could be heard from outside was the orchestra of crickets ready to play whimsical and unusual music all night long without sleep or rest. I listened, knowing that they were out there, hiding from sight in the tall grass. Sleep didn't come right away; I couldn't clear my mind of thoughts not devoid of excitement and even fear. But eventually, exhaustion took over.

  I remember the rain that caught me, Hilda, and Irma, a girl from the Hoyd farm, when the three of us were in the forest. How it drummed on the leaves, trickling down onto the damp ground, and we ran, trying to find the most reliable shelter and stay dry. How wonderful is the smell of the forest after the rain! It smells of nature, of herbs and plants. The rain soon stopped, and through the clouds, a ray of sunshine peeked, finding its way through the foliage on the branches. I remember how happy we were, even though we were soaked to the bone.

  With the first rays of the new day, I got up, full of enthusiasm to begin our journey, as planned. However, alongside that enthusiasm, there was also deep sadness. By evening today, we would be far away from here. We would think of the home we wouldn't see for a while, a home we would miss. I walked through the second floor, also peeking into the attic to take a quick look at its contents. Some items were covered with a thin layer of dust. Unusual-shaped figurines collected from travels. Wooden carved figures. Among them was an intricate warrior figurine in armor, holding a sword in her right hand. It was undoubtedly my favorite childhood toy. That item reminded me of Asenforth, a distant city on a high hill. And of the book that was in my room. I decided I must take the book with me. So, I returned to my room, grabbed the volume with a brown cover depicting a sailing ship amidst waves, titled "The Legendary Voyages of Haida the Brave," authored by several historians and others. I held the volume in my hands, touched the illustration, and traced my finger along the book cover. I approached the window, stood there for a while, deeply inhaling the cool air. Afterward, I decided it was time to stop wasting time and finally descend the wooden staircase.

  In our living room, two assembled backpacks awaited me — apparently, Hilda had woken up, which wasn't surprising since she was never one to sleep in. Much earlier than me, I think. As soon as I descended, she entered the house.

  "Are you ready?" the girl asked.

  A moment of silence. Then came a confident reply.

  "I'm ready."

  There was space in the backpack for the one book I couldn't leave behind. There were also our supplies in the form of water flasks and provisions. Simple ones, dried meat that can be stored for a long time. Dried bread, which is unlikely to spoil anytime soon. On the table in the living room, my dagger lay. It remained after my father, who didn't personally pass it to me since I was still young when he was alive to carry that item. I hung the dagger from my belt. In the wild lands, its sharp blade would probably come in handy more than once. Hilda put on a quiver on her belt and took her bow. I slung the backpack over my back. Nothing else held us back. We were ready and could begin.

  The Sun's disc had just risen above the horizon. The village, for the most part, was still asleep. I don't think anyone noticed us. And if they did, they probably assumed we would soon return. Hilda and I walked about a hundred feet away from the house, stopped, and turned around to look at the cozy two-story structure once again. The place where we were born, where we grew up, where we lost our mother. Everything happened right here.

  We moved even farther, climbed a small hill from where the entire village came into view. I had to shield my eyes from the rising Sun in the east with my palm. The entire village, covered in the morning mist, surrounded by evergreen coniferous trees, lay before us. Two dozen houses with triangular roofs, a windmill a little further away. The tavern "The Green Song", where the most delicious ale flows, where wonderful music is played in the evenings, and enchanting songs are sung, and the sound of dancing feet echoes on the wooden floor.

  "I would like to come back here," Hilda said.

  "We will come back," I reassured her.

  "Do you think so?"

  I took my sister's hand. This time, I let her feel the certainty.

  "I know it."

  "You're the best brother in the world."

  Hilda smiled warmly.

  "And you're the best sister."

  The village remained behind us. Ahead lay a whole world—a vast, boundless world filled with incredible, unknown, beautiful, and dangerous things.

  "Adventure awaits us," Hilda said. "Let's go."

  The first step on the journey to the distant and mysterious Frost Peaks was taken. Thousands and thousands of steps still lay ahead. The journey had begun.