The Ironhold Highlands were a desolate stretch of rising earth where the wind whistled through jagged limestone peaks like the breath of a dying giant. Grey clouds hung low over the construction site, pregnant with the threat of sleet, casting a muted light over the frantic activity below. The air was thick with the scent of pulverized stone, wet mortar, and the acrid smoke from the blacksmiths' forges that worked through the night. Thousands of laborers, funded by the golden veins of the White Dragon Mountains, moved like ants across the landscape, dragging massive blocks of granite up the steep inclines. At the center of this industrial chaos stood Constantine, his black cloak snapping in the wind as he looked down at the sprawling foundation of his grand design.
"This is madness, My Lo
