The fortress of Blackhollow smelled of blood and smoke.
Its walls still bore scorch-marks from the siege, its courtyard was slick with old gore. The cries of the wounded echoed through the halls, mingling with the clang of Bran’s hammer as he reforged broken weapons in the forge.
Cael stood upon the battlements, the stag banner snapping above his head. Below, the Antlered Host labored like ants—repairing gates, digging trenches, sharpening stakes. Farmers who had never held more than a plow now hoisted stone blocks, driven by a single purpose.
Blackhollow was no longer Malrik’s garrison. It was the heart of the rebellion.
But it was a heart that beat under threat of a blade.
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The Counsel of War
The council gathered in the great hall—a chamber still reeking of pitch and ash. Cael
