The wind at the summit of the Ironhold Watchtower was a jagged, invisible blade that tore through the grey mist of the highlands. It carried the scent of ozone and the heavy, metallic tang of an approaching deluge, but beneath the natural elements, there was something far more ominous. It was the smell of ten thousand horses, of oiled leather, and the suffocating dust of a marching empire. Constantine stood alone at the very edge of the stone battlement, his hands resting lightly on the cold, damp granite. His black cloak snapped behind him like the rhythmic beating of a raven's wings, a solitary dark blot against the bruised purple of the horizon.
Far below, the zigzag walls of the fortress stretched out like the fractured ribs of a giant, carving deep shadows into the rugged terrain. Th
