The weekend began with a sense of freedom, far from the stone walls and whispered intrigues of the capital, Mor. The three friends set off together for the slopes nestled in the foothills of the Tempelune Range, whose imposing peaks dominated the horizon like eternal sentinels. The journey, aboard a carriage pulled by horses with thick coats, took them through snowy valleys where pine trees bent under blankets of fresh snow. The dry cold of the mountains penetrated their clothes, but the pure air, filled with the resinous scent of pine and frost, invigorated them upon arrival.
The slopes stretched out before them, vast and pristine, their surfaces shimmering under a pale sun that pierced the low clouds. The snow, a brilliant white, crunched under their boots as they adjusted their skis—wooden planks reinforced with metal, crafted by artisans from the high plateaus of the Empire. Dorian, accustomed to the harsh winters of Fine, launched himself down the slopes with natural ease, carving fluid arcs in the powder, his laughter echoing like a challenge. Sven set off with raw enthusiasm.
Mero, a novice in the matter, took his time to acclimate. He stopped at the top of a slope, his skis planted in the snow, to contemplate the landscape. The Tempelune Mountains rose in a majestic chain, their sharp ridges draped in white, their dark flanks striped with forests where wisps of mist clung to the evergreens. Below, a valley snaked, dotted with chalets whose smoking roofs glowed with nascent lights, twinkling like stars in the gathering dusk. The muffled silence of the heights, broken only by the wind's breath and the harsh cry of a raven, contrasted with the tumult of imperial affairs. For the first time in weeks, Mero felt a rare freedom invade him, a pure breath that swept away the shadows from his mind.
The day passed in a succession of descents, friendly challenges, and shared laughter. Sven, with his instinctive boldness, attempted improvised jumps, sometimes landing in sprays of snow that triggered general hilarity. Dorian, more precise, glided with calculated elegance, throwing amused jabs whenever Sven stumbled. Mero, cautious at first, gained confidence over the hours, his muscles adapting to the rhythm of the slopes, his heart lightening with each successful glide. Between runs, they stopped to catch their breath, their faces reddened by effort and cold, exchanging taunts about their performances or discussing everything and nothing—boring school lessons, childhood memories, fleeting hopes.
As evening fell, they found refuge in an inn nestled at the foot of the slopes, a sturdy building with rough stone and dark wood walls, whose windows diffused a warm, golden light. Inside, a large fireplace crackled vigorously, casting dancing shadows on the low, smoke-patinated ceiling beams. The tables, carved from massive, time-worn wood, were surrounded by benches covered in thick furs, inviting relaxation after a day of exertion. The air was filled with the scent of local dishes—a steaming cheese fondue, a rich-smelling raclette, accompanied by spiced mulled wine that warmed the hands and soul. They settled around a large table near the fire, their snow-dusted clothes melting in the heat.
Conversations flowed naturally. Sven recounted an exaggerated anecdote from his native island, where he had allegedly climbed a giant palm tree to escape a tropical storm—a tale that Dorian contested with mocking laughter, arguing that coconut trees didn't grow that tall. Mero, in turn, spoke of the storms in Sel, those howling winds that bent the palm trees and roared the waves, a memory that fascinated Dorian, unaccustomed to such forces in his kingdom. They also talked about the future—Sven dreaming of exploring the seas like the pirates he secretly admired, Dorian expressing his desire to prove his worth beyond his elder brother's shadow. For a moment, imperial responsibilities seemed relegated to another world, dissolved in the warmth of the evening and the camaraderie that united them. The weekend, in its simplicity, became a salvific escape, a refuge in the heart of Mor's harsh winter.
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The following days unfolded with renewed energy, each day strengthening their bond. Mornings began early, the trio emerging from the inn under an often overcast sky, the crisp air biting their faces as they climbed the slopes with their skis over their shoulders. The slopes, still virgin at dawn, offered themselves as an infinite playground, their smooth surfaces shimmering under the rare rays that pierced the clouds. The Tempelune Mountains dominated the horizon, their snowy peaks catching the light in a silver glow, while dark forests stretched across their flanks, dotted with mist and the cries of solitary birds.
They tackled the descents with growing fervor, sometimes pushing their limits. Sven, driven by his audacity, launched himself down the steepest slopes, his skis sending up sprays of snow when he lost his balance—a frequent spectacle that amused his companions. Dorian, with his usual precision, traced fluid lines, his calculated movements contrasting with Sven's exuberance. Mero, now more at ease, let himself be carried by the momentum, his descents gaining speed and confidence, his laughter mingling with theirs when their friendly competitions ended in comical falls. Each skid, each tumble in the powder, was followed by jokes that lightened the atmosphere, turning failures into shared moments of joy.
During breaks, they settled around small, rough-hewn wooden tables in the ski lodges, their gloves tossed haphazardly near mugs of hot chocolate or steaming tea. From these perches, they watched other skiers—families bundled up dragging sleds, noisy groups shouting encouragement, solitary figures gliding in silence—descend the slopes in a chaotic ballet. Conversations oscillated between lightheartedness and depth. Sometimes, they teased each other about their feats or failures—Sven swearing he would one day master a perfect jump, Dorian retorting that he preferred grace to daring. Other times, their exchanges took a more intimate turn. Sven confided his dream of sailing the warm seas of the Thetian Ocean, far from the humid jungles of Fer. Dorian spoke of his elder brother, the heir to Fine, and the pressure to stand out in his shadow. Mero mentioned Mandarine—her strength, her audacity, the complexity of their bond—a subject that drew curious but respectful glances from his friends.
Evenings were spent in the inn, where they returned after a final descent, their muscles sore but their spirits soothed. Twilight fell quickly in the mountains, painting the sky a deep violet as stars pierced the icy darkness. Inside, the warmth of the fireplace contrasted with the biting cold of the slopes, filling the room with the scent of burning wood and comforting dishes. They shared hearty meals—platters of roasted meat, pots of melted cheese, rustic bread still warm—followed by board games or lazy discussions by the fireplace. Sven tried to cheat at a card game, triggering feigned indignation from Dorian and general laughter. Mero, leaning back in his chair, let his gaze wander into the flames, savoring this interlude where time seemed suspended.
For those few days, the worries of the Empire—the impending nomination, court intrigues, heavy expectations—vanished, replaced by camaraderie and the freedom to live in the moment. The mountains, with their vast, pristine expanses and majestic silence, became a refuge where Mero, Sven, and Dorian could simply be themselves, far from titles and duties.
