The dawn did not break with a golden light, but with a suffocating, iron-grey mist that clung to the jagged edges of the canyon walls. This was the Narrow Gorge, a geographic scar that sliced through the Ironhold Highlands, serving as the only viable path for a massive cavalry force to reach the heart of Astraia. The air was frigid, tasting of damp stone and the metallic tang of readiness. High above the canyon floor, perched on precarious limestone ledges hidden by thickets of gnarled scrub, Isabella stood like a shadow merged with the rock. Her eyes were fixed on the northern entrance of the gorge, where the rhythmic thud of thousands of hooves was finally beginning to drown out the morning wind.
"They are entering the throat of the pass," Isabella whispered, her voice barely a breath a
