The transition from dreamers to soldiers happened in the space of a single breath. The Silver-Crest, which for weeks had echoed with the gentle scraping of masons’ trowels and the optimistic chatter of carpenters installing decorative cedar beams, transformed into a hive of lethal intent. The soft, golden sunlight of the late May morning felt like a mockery against the stark, cold reality that had settled over the four rulers of the North.
Malphas strode through the subterranean vaults beneath the manor, his heavy boots smashing through puddles of icy water. Behind him, three of his most trusted pack-enforcers struggled to keep pace, carrying heavy bars of cold-wrought iron and sacks of quick-drying volcanic mortar.
The air down here was thick, smelling of centuries of stagnant stone and
