Sir Albert Brentwood never imagines he will one day drink hot coffee out of a real ceramic mug. Not those weak, watered down cheap coffee served lukewarm in chipped pewters, but the glossy, thick-walled kind that warms the palms like a lover’s breath. The same hands that had once clutched a battered shield now wrap around porcelain as delicate as a noble’s lie.
Winterkeep Barracks feels less like a fortress and more like a hallucination. The brick walls hum with enchantment, old magic layered with new, warm to the touch and utterly invulnerable. Inside, electric lights cast gentle golden light across polished marble floors. The scent of lavender soap, roasted meats, and varnished wood replaces the usual stench of sweat, fear, and manure.
“By the gods,” mutters a hedge knight beside Alber
