The valley trembled beneath the weight of iron.
From horizon to horizon stretched Malrik’s host—knights in blackened mail, footmen bearing spears like a forest of steel, siege towers groaning on wheels thicker than a man’s chest. At the center, beneath banners of the crow, rose a pavilion of crimson silk, vast as a lord’s hall.
Inside, the Crow King plotted.
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The Black Council
Malrik sat upon a throne of carved obsidian, his cloak flowing like shadow. Before him gathered his lords and captains, each armored in black, each sworn by blood and fear.
“Blackhollow stands against us,” rasped Lord Veynar, his face pale, lips drawn thin. “The stag prince has fortified the walls. To break them will cost blood.”
“Blood is the coin of war,” Malrik answered, his voice like stone grinding sto
