The Nightfang fortress was cloaked in a fragile pre-dawn silence, the air sharp and metallic with cold. Ronan’s delegation was small: himself, Lyra, and two of his most trusted warriors, Torr and Kaida.
They moved like shadows. Lyra wore muted layers of heavy wool beneath a thick leather jerkin, the color of snow and shadow, and carried a pack containing a fraction of the promised supplies: finely milled flour, preserved herbs, and the heavy leather satchel holding the visual proof of Kael’s war machine. Ronan had insisted she travel light, ready to run.
"Serpent's Mouth Pass is three days on a direct line," Ronan murmured to Lyra as they descended the last icy switchback leading away from the fortress. "We take the high route. It’s harder, but avoids the main valley Kael’s scouts favor
