RIDING WITH THE BEAST
CHAPTER 63: THE WEIGHT OF NEW VOICES
The first wave of delegates from the eastern river lands arrived as the leaves began to turn, glowing gold and crimson against the grey stone of Black Rock. They came in small groups, traveling light, carrying nothing but their own stories and the concerns of their people. Some had walked for days along tracks the old order had let fall into ruin, choked with bramble and fallen timber; others rode thin, shaggy ponies along paths only their own families knew, winding through valleys no map had ever marked. When they stepped through the gates of Black Rock, they did not look around with wonder — they looked with caution, checking every face, every shadow, every hand that reached out to greet them, as if expecting a blow or a lie to
