The private jet cut through the dense, salt-heavy fog rolling off the Gulf of St. Lawrence, its engines whining as Ethan brought the craft down in a steep, aggressive descent. Below them, jagged cliffs of black stone plunged violently into churning gray waters, whipped into a frenzy by an oncoming nor'easter.
Perched on the highest, most isolated promontory stood the Iron Spires—a sprawling, gothic fortress of dark stone and towering iron-framed windows that looked like something dragged straight out of a nightmare.
"We’re touching down on the private airstrip cut into the northern ridge," Ethan’s voice crackled over the intercom, tight with concentration. "It hasn't been maintained in twenty years. The runway is short, slick with ice, and flanked by sheer drops on both sides. Hold on t
