SKYE'S POV
The golden haze of late summer eventually yielded to the crisp, invigorating breath of early autumn. The high alpine ridges caught the first brushstrokes of amber and rust, and the morning air began to carry that sharp, unmistakable bite that whispered of changing seasons. Yet, down in the sheltered hollows of Nighthaven, the atmosphere remained vibrant, bustling with the frantic, joyful energy of preparation.
The upcoming autumn trade summit was only days away, and the fortress was a hive of organized motion. Caravans from the southern lowlands, independent merchant guilds from the western passes, and representatives from the independent mountain clans were already beginning to assemble at the outer gates. The air outside the stone walls was thick with the din of commerce—the
