Entry 70: Whitewail

Dear diary,
 
Describing Whitewail in all its frozen majesty feels almost impossible. The city clings to the side of a towering, snow-draped mountain like a crown carved from ice and stone. Its architecture is flawless and unsettling—tall towers of white marble rising like frozen spires, their edges sharp as blades, spiraling walls hugging the rugged slopes. It’s beautiful, yes, but in the way a glacier is beautiful: cold, silent, and dangerous.
 
We stood for a long time, just staring.
 
My illusion spell had unraveled sometime during the flight, leaving us exposed beneath the twilight sky. I could cast it again—but not until dawn. And we weren’t about to risk a direct approach with that many eyes above and within those walls.
So we chose patience, setting up camp in the shadow of a jagged outcrop. Better to wait and gather our strength than charge in half-prepared.
 
As we rested, Liliana told us more about Whitewail—details only someone who’d served Vivienne would know. Beneath the mountain, she said, tunnels wove like veins through stone, connecting districts, barracks, and halls. One enormous tunnel ran the length of the mountain itself, all the way to the harbor on the far side. A lifeline for ships and supplies. A natural choke point.
 
But then she shared something else. Something that made the entire harbor plan feel small and foolish.
 
“There’s a portal,” she said quietly, as if afraid Vivienne might still hear her from miles away. “In the heart of the fortress. One that leads straight to Nimmerhold.”
 
That stopped us cold.
 
“Unattended?” I asked.
 
“Most of the time. It’s how Vivienne travels quickly when she needs to. She never expects enemies to make it that far.”
 
I didn’t ask why she hadn’t told us sooner. Maybe she’d wanted to wait until we were far enough away from Vivienne’s gaze. Maybe she hadn’t fully trusted us yet. Either way, it didn’t matter. This changed everything.
 
There were two routes to the portal: one direct, heavily guarded by Vivienne’s forces. The other—a back entrance through the icy tunnels—was longer, riskier, but with fewer guards. Liliana warned us of frost creatures in the deeper caverns, things ancient and forgotten by most surface-dwellers. But we’d faced worse.
 
We looked at one another and came to the same decision without a word.
 
The harbor could wait. The portal was our way home.
 
And this time, we wouldn’t be running. We’d be cutting through the mountain’s heart—straight into the jaws of Vivienne’s domain.
 
And then Gael—bless his ever-questionable instincts—made a suggestion that made me seriously wonder if he’s secretly trying to sabotage us. Has he turned coat to King Ulther and just forgot to mention it? Because his bright idea was this: “Why don’t we ask Vivienne for a place to sleep tonight?”
 
Right. Sure. Let’s just waltz up to Whitewail’s front gates and politely inform the Queen of Ice and Secrets that her fugitives would like room service and a pillow mint. Maybe she’d even tuck us in and assign a dozen guards to watch us sleep. Just in case we get cold.
 
I wasn’t the only one appalled. Thankfully, everyone else shared the same expression of “absolutely not” and gave Gael the blank, stunned look he so often earns. Honestly, it ranked just below his brilliant suggestion to bring Dynia with us. But only just.
 
So, we made camp for the night instead, tucking ourselves away beneath the cloak of snow and fading light. Luke conjured one of his magical shelters—warm, soundproof, and hidden—and Gael redeemed himself slightly by laying false tracks to throw off any unwanted attention. Good thing too, because a patrol of winter wolves passed uncomfortably close. Their icy growls cut through the dark, but they didn’t find us. Between illusion and misdirection, we stayed ghosts in the frost.
 
Sixth “night” in Neverhold.
 
Morning—or whatever passes for morning in this land of dusk—brought new preparations. I cast the illusion again, draping each of us and our mounts in a glamour that made us look like we belonged here. Eyeshadow of frost, cloaks of shifting snow, the works. Feywild fashion, but subtle. I also reminded everyone, gently, to please not kill any guards if it could be avoided. A courtesy to Vivienne, who had, for all her secrets, helped us more than once.
 
They agreed. Mostly. Though I could see that glint in Luke’s eye—the one that says “I won’t start a fire unless someone else really deserves it.” I know that look well. He’s my brother, after all.
 
Getting through the gates was easy. Too easy, maybe. The guards barely gave us a second glance, more concerned with keeping warm than examining travelers. Cloaked in illusion, we slipped into Whitewail like snowflakes on a breeze.
 
Liliana took the lead, guiding us through the winding alleys and tunnel mouths that coiled around the mountain’s base. It wasn’t long before we reached the outskirts of the cave—our path to the back entrance and, beyond it, the portal to Nimmerhold.
 
But nothing’s ever simple. A watchtower loomed at the entrance, squat and bristling with blades and frost-enchanted stones. We weren’t going through unnoticed. Not without a plan.
 
So we sent Dadroz to scout. He returned with his usual grin and unshakable confidence, claiming we could sneak past easily. I admire his optimism. I truly do. But aside from Dadroz and Gael, we’re about as subtle as a thunderstorm in a mirror maze.
 
Luke, ever the subtle tactician, suggested we burn the whole place to the ground to get past the guards. Charming, really. I countered with something a little less... apocalyptic. A dense fog, conjured thick and heavy to blanket the ground, masking our approach like an early morning mist. If we timed it right, it would seem completely natural—nothing to alert the sentries perched in their towers of ice and stone.
 
And so, hand in hand, we crept forward through the snow as the fog rolled in, our steps muffled by magic and frost. It was slow going—visibility reduced to just the people beside you—but before long we reached the yawning mouth of the cave, the first real step toward the portal.
 
Of course, nothing in Whitewail comes unguarded. At the entrance loomed a pair of yeti and several winter wolves, fur crusted with ice and eyes alert with suspicion. Liliana didn’t hesitate. She stepped forward like she belonged there, voice calm and commanding.
 
“We were sent by Lady Vivienne,” she said, cool as the snow underfoot. “We've returned from a special assignment and need to report in.”
 
The yeti eyed us warily. Massive, hulking things—hard to read, and harder to convince. But then Liliana drew the sword Vivienne had gifted her, and let the moonlight catch on its blade. That did the trick. The yeti grunted and stepped aside, and just like that, we were in.
 
I’m not sure what impressed me more—the way she lied, or the way she sold it like truth. Liliana has a gift, no doubt. She fights with steel, but her tongue might be sharper still. I just hope she knows how powerful she is.
 
We pressed deeper into the tunnels, the air growing colder and heavier with each step. And then we found them—two towering ice golems stationed at the back entrance, eyes glowing with an unnatural frostlight. These ones weren’t going to be talked down.
 
The battle was quick and brutal. Blades met frost, spells cracked the ice, and within minutes the golems were nothing more than shattered shards across the stone floor. If Vivienne had planted them here to stop us, she hadn't been trying very hard. A warning, maybe. Or a test.
 
But she’d layered her protection in more than muscle. As Dadroz knelt to unlock the gate—ever the bold locksmith—there was a sudden grinding crack above us. Then a rumble. Stones fell, crashing down onto Liliana, Alistan, and Dadroz before we could react. Dust choked the air, and for one breathless second, my heart stopped.
 
Fortunately, they all came out of it with bruises and scrapes, but nothing worse. Vivienne’s traps weren’t meant to kill—just to slow us down.
 
Behind the now-unlocked gate stretched a narrow hallway, dim and cold, leading to a heavy door at the far end. No traps sprang as we stepped through, but that only made us more cautious. Dadroz, still brushing dust from the last cave-in off his cloak, approached the door with more care than usual. His fingers danced over the edges—click—another trap, this one caught just in time. He disabled it with a quiet mutter and a grin over his shoulder.
 
We crossed the hallway slowly, watching every shadow. Nothing moved. No golems. No wolves. No sudden walls of ice.
 
But the moment Dadroz cracked open the final door, we understood why.
 
Vivienne stood waiting.
 
Framed by the pale glow of the portal behind her, her white hair stirred gently in the chill wind she summoned with a casual flick of her hand. Her expression was infuriating—calm, poised, pleased. As if we were right on schedule.
 
“I must admit,” she said, smiling faintly, “I wasn’t sure you’d take the long route. But here you are.”
 
And then the wind came.
 
A blast of frigid air howled down the hallway, knocking us backward. Frost formed in cracks on the walls. The floor turned slick and treacherous. She wasn’t just blocking the path—she was daring us to take it anyway.
 
I made a choice.
 
If she wanted to test us, fine. But she wasn’t going to make it hard.
 
With a whisper and a twist of my fingers, I bent the space around her, teleporting her cleanly to the other side of the hall. It wasn’t a violent spell—just efficient. I saw the flicker of recognition in her eyes, and—crucially—no resistance. She let it happen.
 
She was never going to stop us. Not really.
 
One by one, the others rushed past her and into the portal. Luke hesitated, his fingers twitching with unspent fire. His eyes locked with Vivienne’s, disappointment clear. He had so wanted to roast something. But even he knew better than to pick a real fight with her. Not today.
 
Maybe next time, brother.
 
Liliana hadn’t moved yet. She stood by the portal, blade in hand, eyes fixed on Vivienne like she was waiting for some unspoken word, some final moment. Maybe a goodbye. Maybe closure.
 
But I wasn’t about to risk her staying behind for sentiment.
 
So I ran.
 
As I passed, I caught her hand—tight, sure—and pulled her with me. She staggered just a step, then matched my pace. Behind us, she gave a small wave to Vivienne, a flick of fingers full of irony or affection or both.
 
And then we stepped through the portal, together.
 
I don’t know what Liliana had hoped to say to her former mistress. But I know this: I wasn’t leaving her. Not for anything.