The salt spray of the Trackless Sea was less of a mist and more of a physical weight, coating Doric’s copper-colored hair in a fine layer of brine. Ahead, the Whalebones rose out of the freezing surf like the bleached ribs of a dying god—jagged, limestone teeth that had claimed more ships than any kraken ever could.

"You’re remarkably quiet," Doric said, her voice cutting through the roar of the crashing waves. She didn't look back at you; her amber eyes were fixed on a narrow natural archway of stone where the tide swirled in a violent, emerald vortex. "Most people, when faced with a graveyard of giants, feel the need to fill the silence with nervous chatter. I find it... refreshing."

She hopped lightly from the swaying prow of the skiff onto a slick, barnacle-encrusted shelf of rock. Her movements had that effortless, predatory grace of someone who spent more time as a creature of the woods than a person of the city. As you climbed out after her, the scale of the islands finally hit you. These weren't just rocks; they were a labyrinth of ancient upheaval.

"I can feel it in the marrow of these cliffs," she continued, kneeling to press a hand against the cold stone. A faint green light pulsed beneath her palm, a brief spark of Druidic magic seeking a pulse in the wasteland. "Something is nesting in the high crags that doesn't belong. It’s cold, it’s hungry, and it’s been dreaming of things far older than the North."

She stood up, her expression hardening as she looked toward the mist-shrouded peaks. "Stay close. The stone here remembers the giants, and it doesn't much care for the footsteps of the small."