The Silent Valley was a hollow scar in the earth located several miles beyond the capital’s outer walls, named for the way the surrounding limestone cliffs swallowed all sound. Today, the stillness was absolute, save for the biting whistle of the wind as it whipped through the narrow crevices. The morning sun was a pale, heatless disc hanging in a grey sky, casting long, sharp shadows across the frost-dusted ground. Constantine stood at the edge of a jagged ridge, his dark cloak billowing behind him like the wings of a predatory bird. Beside him, Isabella adjusted the heavy leather vambraces on her forearms, her breath hitching in the frigid air as a faint mist escaped her lips. Between them, mounted on a sturdy tripod of blackened oak and reinforced steel, sat the primary reason for their
