The winding staircase of the North Tower was a grueling spiral of cold, damp stone that seemed to stretch into the heavens. Constantine climbed with a rhythmic, tireless gait, his boots striking the granite with a hollow echo that resonated through the cylindrical marrow of the fortress. The air grew thinner and sharper with every dozen steps, carrying the scent of frost and high-altitude ozone. Behind him, the footfalls of his most trusted subordinates followed in a disciplined cadence. Isabella walked with the heavy, purposeful tread of a soldier, her new blade a silent weight at her hip. Seraphina moved like a shadow caught in the draft of the stairwell, her presence almost weightless. Elena brought up the rear, her breathing slightly more labored but her resolve etched clearly into her
