The morning air at Highridge was unusually still.
The skies, once vibrant with birdsong and drifting clouds, had turned an overcast gray. From her perch atop the central watchtower, Kaelin stared out toward the distant southern ridgelines where the Ashen threat brooded unseen.
In her arms, a rolled parchment—an intercepted message from one of the Inquisition’s riders, recovered by a Hollow scout two nights ago.
The Hollow bleeds light. Strike at the cusp of frost. Sow the flame. Let the mother watch it burn.
Kaelin crushed the parchment in her fist.
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By mid-afternoon, Kaelin, Theron, and their most trusted operatives rode out from Highridge under the guise of a diplomatic envoy. Accompanying them were Elira, Bastian, Myrra, and two dozen stealth-trained warriors from the Northern
