Snow never lasted on the Black Verge. It hit the ground and vanished in a cloud of steam, spitting and hissing where the Veil thinned against the world. Kael Ardyn knew this border better than anyone. For seven years, he’d walked it—lantern in one hand, spear in the other—listening to the voices that slipped through the cracks in reality. He was a night-warden. No name, no glory, just someone sworn to keep the things beyond the Veil where they belonged. Forgotten gods. Half-shaped spirits. The echoes of kings who died screaming. Kael never bothered asking why the Veil spoke to him clearer than it did to the others. It just did. The night the king died, the Veil went quiet. By dawn, a courier found Kael up on the ridge, shaking from cold, frostbitten, clutching the royal seal already blurred with blood.