The afternoon sun was a cold, pale disk hanging low over the jagged northern ridges. Inside the fortress, the heavy scent of spilled blood and soot from the rogue attack still lingered in the drafts, but the household was already moving under the strict, freezing orders of a military lockdown.
Lady Elena Wolfe marched through the frosted undergrowth of the outer forest perimeter, her heavy leather riding boots crushing the frozen twigs beneath her feet with a sharp, furious rhythm. She wore a thick winter cloak of deep crimson wool, the edges trimmed with black fox fur that brushed against her rigid jawline. Her hands were clenched tightly inside her leather gloves, her knuckles aching from the sheer force of her anger.
She was completely consumed by a burning, toxic rage.
The events in
