CHAPTER 52:
Three days after the Solstice. The ridge was no longer a fortress of war — it was becoming a capital.
Work rang out from dawn until dark. Stonecutters chiseled new foundations where the siege towers had stood. Carpenters raised long halls from the timbers of the enemy’s abandoned camp. Smoke rose from a dozen hearths, carrying the scent of baking bread and drying herbs. The violet glow was gone, scrubbed away with water and ash, and in its place hung banners — not one crest, but many: the stag, the wolf, the twin suns, the oak. They snapped in the crisp autumn wind, bright and unafraid.
The great hall was still rough around the edges — cracks in the stone, fresh-cut timber still smelling of pine — but it was full. Every seat filled, every voice counted. This was the first me
