Endhaven stood in the Yisean mountains near Lake Mahyim, hidden among cold ridges, narrow approaches, and high stone passes where winter seemed to gather early and linger. It was not merely built on the mountain. It appeared to rise from the mountain itself, its foundation cut into raw stone polished over centuries by wind, weather, footsteps, and use.
To Herte, the place felt ancient in a way Mushkinek’s newer strongholds did not. Endhaven carried age in its bones. Sound moved strangely through it. Footsteps echoed too long. Voices traveled upward through open spaces, then returned softened and distorted, as if the fortress itself were listening before answering.
The interior reinforced that uneasy impression. Its halls were broad, cold, and spare, shaped from stone worn smooth by time rather than decoration. The open stairwell was especially unsettling. It climbed through the structure without a rail, exposing anyone who used it to the full height of the drop below. For Herte, already dependent on his crutch, every step became an act of concentration. The space made weakness visible.
Endhaven lacked the polish of Verdance Rest and the crowded vitality of Stoneveil. Its character was older, harsher, and more watchful. It felt less like a refuge than a place designed to test whether a person belonged there. The cold stone, lingering echoes, exposed heights, and mountain silence gave it a severe dignity, as though it had endured long before Mushkinek found it and would endure long after him.