MENDEL’S POV
When a wolf catches a whiff of decay, it doesn’t just stroll on by. The wolf digs in until its claws wear down and its nose becomes bloodied from the hunt.
That’s where I find myself now, alone in Ironhold’s high chamber, the old stone vault where my father stored the Silver-Bound Chronicles. It’s been three nights since I sent my trackers to scour every back trail through Pandara and beyond. It’s been three nights since they came back, chests heaving with frost, clutching pages torn from old trade ledgers and scribbled testimonies from border folk who mentioned a child who remained nameless, one who didn’t quite fit the Pandara’s venom.
I light a lone, iron-lipped lantern, letting its glow illuminate the pages scattered across the war table. I make myself read each word th
