CHAPTER 54:
Dawn broke pale and sharp over the ridge, painting the stone walls in bruised gold. The courtyard was already alive. Gareth stood by the gate, checking the straps of his pack, his horse shifting restlessly beneath him. Beside him were three southern riders — hard-faced, quiet, men who knew the Grey Mountains better than they knew their own hearths. They carried light supplies, no heavy armor, orders to observe, not engage.
“Three days,” I said, stepping up to Gareth and handing him a sealed pouch. “If you find nothing — if the villages are quiet, if the stories are just stories — you turn back. No pushing further. No taking unnecessary risks.”
“Understood,” he said, tucking it inside his tunic. “But if it’s real… if we find something…?”
“Then you send word. You don’t fight
