The dawn did not break over the Grey Mountains; it was forged.
A sharp, brilliant sliver of gold cut through the endless banks of white mist, reflecting off the obsidian spires of Ironspire until the entire fortress looked as though it were burning from within. The drums had been beating since the first light—a deep, rhythmic thrumming that rose from the lower valleys, vibrating through the stone floors, the castle walls, and the very bones of everyone within the keep. It was the heartbeat of the mountains, welcoming their new Queen.
Ariah stood before the floor-length mirror in the royal dressing chambers, her breath coming in slow, measured rises.
She was no longer a shadow.
The gown-armor she wore was a masterpiece of highland craft. The bodice, crafted from midnight-black deerskin,
