Arevayin’s mountain slopes held only narrow veins of green—poplars, walnuts, and the prickly wild roses that grew stubbornly close to the ground. At higher altitudes, the trees thinned, leaving rock-strewn meadows, windswept, and dotted with yellow azalea and snowdrops. Those who lived here had learned that danger came as often on four legs as it did on two; in the villages near Bazartiz, mothers kept knives close and children learned early to watch the horizon for raiders. Zaraniq itself lay quiet and wary, its rooftops sheltered by walnut trees as if to keep a low profile under the vast open sky.

The capital, Ijverak, was a different world—its streets alive with the scent of cinnamon and marjoram from the market stalls that crowded around Queen Teslime's palace. In the winding alleys, one might catch a sharp hint of benzoin or myrrh, mingling with the crisp chill of mountain air that descended each nightfall. Every corner seemed to hold shadows cast by Mount Krakot, the restless giant that loomed dark and smoky at the edge of sight, its presence both feared and respected.

In autumn, the Festival of Golden Light would fill Ijverak’s plazas with the scent of saffron and anise, while marjoram and labdanum incense burned at shrines for good fortune. Fires blazed, casting a glow against the stone walls, and echoes of song threaded through the city’s alleys as the people of Arevayin welcomed another year’s harvest, defying the hardships that lay beyond their borders.