CHAPTER 43: THE SPIRE OF LIES
The Old Spire rose ahead like a jagged tooth of black stone set deep into the mountain’s crown, its walls slick with mist and stained by centuries of storm and shadow. It had stood there longer than any living memory, built by hands whose names had been scrubbed from every record the order had touched. As we drew near, we saw it was not abandoned: guards patrolled the high battlements, their coats dark and unmarked, and heavy iron gates barred the only path up the rock face.
We halted in the shelter of the crags, and Mara spread out a tattered hand‑drawn map on the ground beside us. “They do not hold this place by strength alone,” she said, her finger tracing hidden paths and sealed chambers. “They
