“Flavors of the High Ridge
Flavors of the High Ridge
High in the folds of the Serafin Mountains, where clouds brushed the granite peaks and eagles soared like whispers, lay the quiet village of Alvara. It was a place of stone paths, mossy rooftops, and fires that never fully went out—especially in the kitchens. Though the winters were long and the roads treacherous, no one ever went hungry. The mountain, they said, always gave enough—if you listened.
