The morning after the Equinox Hunt, the high halls of the Blackwood Citadel were bathed in a crisp, brilliant sunlight that reflected off the fresh snow lining the battlements. The bitter wind that had howled through the Frost-Spire Valley had finally settled into a quiet, frozen stillness. Yet inside the fortress, the social landscape had shifted permanently.
In the grand dining hall, where dozens of high-caste noble families gathered for the morning feast, there were no sarcastic whispers or condescending glances directed at the head table. The news of Nora marching out of the sub-zero blizzard with the white stag’s horns—while the ice-wolf of House Frost-Pike had to be dragged back by guards—had shattered the last pillar of aristocratic resistance.
Nora sat in the high carved chair to
