The Ironclaw gates loomed ahead, ivy creeping along the outer walls, stones dulled by years of ash and neglect.
Grace rode slowly, her cloak fluttering behind her, boots caked in red dirt from three territories. The guards stiffened when they saw her—then lowered their spears.
“Lady Grace," one of them said quietly.
“I'm not a lady anymore."
The guard stepped aside. “The elders await you in the war hall."
She gave a curt nod and entered.
Inside, the keep felt smaller. Dimmer. Empty in places that used to pulse with life.
She passed the nursery—Johnson's room, untouched, the carved wolf still hanging from the door handle.
Grace paused but didn't go in.
Not yet.
---
The war hall had aged poorly. Banners sagged. Cracks split the marble floor. The round table once polished to perfec
