The High Lord's council spire overlooked the Northern continent through a single pane of diamond-hard glass.
The capital lay far below, with roads cutting dark lines through the snow. No Blackwood flag flew anywhere in sight.
Snowfields stretched below the tower. On the table beside me lay a dirty sheet of paper smuggled from the Crystal Mines.
It had passed through a dozen hands before a Guild courier delivered it. Mine dust stained the folds and the bottom corner was torn.
The letter had taken a week to reach me. Caleb's handwriting filled both sides in cramped lines.
He described fourteen-hour shifts underground, split palms, rough blankets, and cold that followed him into sleep.
He wrote that the mine bell rang before daylight and that his hands reopened whenever he lifted the cr
