The Ironhold Highlands were a jagged scar of grey granite and stubborn shrubs, rising sharply from the fertile plains of central Astraia. For centuries, the site had been little more than a shepherd’s lookout, but today it was a hive of frantic, organized destruction. The air was thick with a choking fog of limestone dust and the acrid scent of woodsmoke from the forge-fires. Thousands of workers, drafted from the city and the surrounding estates, swarmed over the hillsides like ants on a disturbed mound. The rhythmic thud of heavy hammers, the screech of iron saws biting into stone, and the distant shouts of foremen created a symphony of industrial labor that drowned out the natural wind.
Constantine stood on a high ledge of natural rock, his dark cloak whipping violently in the cold mou
