The wind at the Boundary Ravine did not blow; it screamed, tearing through the jagged black chasm like a wounded beast. Freezing rain mingled with heavy, wet flakes of snow, turning the rocky banks into a treacherous, slick trap of mud and ice. Far below, the Roaring River was a churning, white-foamed torrent, swollen by the premature spring thaw, swallowing any sound that dared to rise from its depths.
On the northern bank, the Iron Vanguard stood in a silent, flawless wall of dark iron and thick furs. At their head, mounted on the colossal black stallion, was Lycaon, his armor dark as the storm itself. Beside him, riding a massive grey mare, was Ariah.
She wore her obsidian crown, the jagged shards of silver catching the grey light of the storm. Her emerald silk skirt whipped violently
