The Night Without Wind
The fortress did not sleep.
Not because of celebration—there was none—but because every wolf, every guard, every servant could feel it: the shift in the air. The sensation that something had been set in motion and could no longer be stopped.
The wind had died completely. Not a leaf moved in the trees beyond the walls. Even the river, usually a restless murmur beneath the cliffs, seemed to have fallen silent, as if it too was holding its breath.
Elaria stood on the balcony outside Draven’s chambers, unable to keep still.
Her skin burned with a strange warmth—not fever, not the bond—something older. Something deeper. Every time she closed her eyes she saw the Gate beneath the mountain, the runes burning, her name written in blood that never dried.
Behind her, the
