The journey to the High Crag was not merely a march; it was a psychological siege.
The mountain pass was a narrow, winding throat of jagged basalt and treacherous ice. We traveled in a tight formation: ten Ridge warriors in the lead, ten Eastern "New Blood" bringing up the rear, and Lorenzo and I held in the center like the heart of a storm.
The air was thin and bitingly dry, making every breath a chore. But the physical strain was nothing compared to the psychic friction. Through the Adhiero bond, I could feel the two factions grating against each other. To my left, Jaren, one of Lorenzo’s oldest lieutenants, kept his hand perpetually on his sword hilt, his eyes darting to Kael, the young Easterner who walked just a few paces behind him.
*They’re going to snap,* Lorenzo’s voice echoed
