Chapter 3: The Little Mouse

“Don’t stop, everyone, we’re almost there!” The caravan leader, Urian, shouted repeatedly along the way to encourage the weary travelers.

Guided by the rough map Uncle Urian had provided, the villagers’ convoy journeyed south for a thousand miles along the World Tree Avenue. After more than a month of arduous travel, they reached the watchtower where he had once been stationed, then left the main road to follow the banks of the Anzenor River westward. Traversing over thirty miles of primal forest, they finally arrived at their destination in the river bend.

At present, the caravan was at the far western edge of Count Frilov’s domain, leaving behind the last watchtower and stepping fully into the untamed wilderness. Though only thirty-some miles remained, this final stretch proved far more grueling than the thousand miles before it. Not only did hidden beasts lurk in the shadows, but the kobolds had ambushed them four times. The most recent attack caused more casualties than all the previous ones combined. Of the fifty remaining militia, barely half were still able to fight, and even Leo Mundo, the newly-appointed militia captain, had been grievously wounded in the fray.

The kobold raids were not the only hardship; the lack of roads made the heavily laden villagers’ progress excruciatingly slow. Wagon wheels sank into mud, tipped over, or snapped their axles. Donkeys panicked and bolted or stubbornly refused to move. Rain and snow fell, and giant fallen trees blocked their path. Some villagers, their nerves shattered, caused trouble or fell ill. Even a clifflet less than three meters high could bring the entire convoy to a standstill for half a day.

Accidents of every sort slowed their pace to a crawl, nearly halting them altogether. Everyone in the caravan was slogging through icy mud, locked in a bitter struggle with adversity.

“How much farther? When will we arrive? Can’t we just camp here?” Some wept, others shouted.

“We’ll be there tomorrow! Just a little more effort and we’ll make it!” Urian, beaming, leapt atop a boulder, waving his horned helmet and bellowing, “There are fat fish you can catch with your bare hands! Herds of elk running wild! Trees for you to fell! Vast swathes of fertile land where everyone can eat their fill!”

Uncle Urian had repeated these words throughout the journey; the caravan’s children had even woven them into a song. Yet none could deny that his speeches bolstered their spirits and kept them going. Had Urian lacked the necessary authority and means, or had the villagers not already burned their bridges to follow him this far, the fragile caravan would have scattered long ago.

But no matter how many times “we’ll be there tomorrow” was uttered, the villagers did at last reach the river bend, arriving at the beautiful new homeland Urian had so fervently described.

Here, a vast peninsula curved into the river, its broad plain formed by centuries of silt. Unlike the thick forests lining the riverbanks, the peninsula itself was covered in grasslands and dotted with small lakes; only a few scattered hills bore sparse trees and shrubs.

In winter, the grassland was blanketed with thigh-deep dry grass, whose sturdy roots resisted even the weight of snow. The richness of the soil was obvious—even Leo, no expert, could see this was prime land for settling and farming.

After three days and nights spent lying in the wagon, Leo Mundo finally managed to stand and walk, albeit with difficulty.

During that time, the original owner’s memories had invaded his mind like shards of a shattered mirror, falling chaotically and painfully. They subtly altered his perceptions and personality, and he moved about in a daze. Luckily, the previous Leo had always lived in such a fog, and since he’d been bedridden, no one noticed the change.

The caravan was now camped on a gravelly stretch beside the river, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief—grateful to have survived, yet uncertain of their future. Uncle Urian hopped onto a wagon and loudly assigned tasks, commanding the dazed villagers to chop wood, prepare food, and set up camp.

The camp, which had fallen silent, was soon bustling again under his direction.

Leo slipped away from the commotion, taking advantage of his injuries to lounge on a huge stone by the river.

Before him flowed the Anzenor River, a tributary of the Northern Ice River. Rising deep within the Grand Barrier, it plunged from heights of several thousand meters, then meandered northeast for over two thousand miles before joining the Northern Ice River at the great northern city of Olenik, merging into the Storm Fjord, and finally emptying into the Frozen Sea.

Though merely a tributary, it was large enough to be named on continental maps. Its waters ran gently here, with a short freeze each year and rich fisheries. Compared to the Northern Ice River—which remained frozen most of the year—the Anzenor truly was the mother river of the north.

Here, at the river bend near its upper reaches, the water was not wide. The current, which had been swift upstream, slowed and spread out here, transforming the channel from fifty to over a hundred meters wide, like a small lake. Through the crystal water, shoals of fish could be seen gliding and searching for food.

To the west, snow-capped mountains rose in the distance. Beyond a few low peaks, sheer cliffs soared skyward, their summits lost in the clouds, as if marking the edge of the world.

That was the Grand Barrier, encircling the heart of the Dawn Continent in a vast ring, resembling a colossal tree stump rising from the earth. Leo’s gaze could only take in a fraction of its immensity.

From those cloudy heights, the Anzenor River cascaded down, its waters tumbling over the cliff face in a series of grand waterfalls—a breathtaking sight.

Northward, across the river, stretched endless forest, where gigantic conifers stood thick with snow. Along the opposite bank, a herd of elk, as tall as horses, drank from the river; a few fawns gazed curiously at Leo, calling out with plaintive bleats.

Urian had told him that this forest had once been a vast prairie called Wolfdriven Plain, where, a thousand years ago, the beastkin raised dire wolves—the birthplace of their legendary wolf cavalry. In their day, those wolf riders matched the empire’s own armored knights in power.

But after the beastkin withdrew north beyond the Northern Ice River, the plain was transformed into forest by the combined magic of beastkin shamans and elven druids. Countless relics of their ancient glory now lay buried in the trackless woods.

What Leo most admired about Urian, beyond his martial skills, was his gift for spinning tales. Anything could become a legend in his telling, rich with history and allure.

A golden-haired young woman, Olivia, approached and checked Leo’s wounds. Only after making sure he was well did she scold him sternly, “Your tent is ready. If you get tired, go lie down. Don’t wander around, understand?”

“I understand,” Leo replied obediently. After gazing at the landscape for a while, the cold wind set him shivering, and he finally returned to camp to find his tent.

It was a small patchwork tent, sewn from various pelts, its interior stuffed with furs—spoils from Leo’s years of hunting. Yet the poor tanning and overuse had reduced many hides to mere fluff. Still, it was one of the best tents in camp, at least warm enough.

Outside, a filthy little boy sat huddled by the tent, shivering. He hugged his knees, swathed in a threadbare, hole-ridden blanket, his back pressed to the tent’s side in a vain attempt to keep warm.

Leo walked over and gave him a nudge with his foot, half-joking, “Little Mouse, did you find any food today?”

Forgive me, he thought—it wasn’t really me who kicked him, but the old Leo. Years of living as a half-savage, half-bandit had ingrained crude habits and violence into his blood, which now shaped his every move.

Even so, Leo instinctively held back at the last moment, but the boy still tumbled several times into the depths of the tent.

The child, called Little Mouse, was under four feet tall, clad in rags, his body emaciated. He had black hair and eyes—rare in the north. Leo had first found him about ten days ago, one snowy dawn, under a donkey cart at the roadside. The boy had sheltered beneath the wagon on a little blanket, curled up against the cold and snow. That blanket—the same one now around his shoulders—was barely half a meter square, useless for warmth.

When Leo discovered him, the child was already stiff from cold. Perhaps reminded of his own childhood, Leo had hauled the frozen boy into his tent and dumped him on the pile of ragged furs, even giving him his own breakfast.

Unexpectedly, the nearly lifeless child survived. Since then, Little Mouse had followed the caravan, unseen by day, curling up in the corner of Leo’s tent at night, and had managed to survive for another half month.

Leo’s kindness had its limits, though. Ever since leaving the village, he’d barely had enough to eat himself. All he could spare was a corner of the tent for the boy to nest in. He’d first called the child Little Mute, but when he discovered the boy could speak, he changed it to Little Mouse.

What the boy did to survive—whether stealing, begging, or eating wild grass—Leo did not know. Somehow, he endured. During Leo’s recent illness, Olivia had cared for him in the wagon; he’d not stayed in the tent and wondered how Little Mouse had managed those days.