Three days after the Frost-Pike faction bowed to her authority, the first formal shipments from the newly acquired Ironwood timber mills arrived at the Citadel’s lower gates. Heavy wooden wagons, laden with towering trunks of black-grained ironwood—a rare timber denser than oak and nearly as fire-resistant as stone—creaked into the fortress courtyard under the watchful eyes of Torin’s vanguard.
Nora stood on the second-story stone overlook, wrapped in a fur-trimmed mantle of deep slate blue. Beside her, Valen leaned against the snow-dusted parapet, his broad shoulder lightly pressing against hers, his warm aura a constant shield against the mountain chill.
"That timber will reinforce the eastern garrisons and secure our winter siege defenses for the next decade," Valen noted, his deep vo
