North of Savadra
The sun had only just slipped beyond the horizon, leaving the Silverstone estate draped in a darkness so complete it seemed to smother the surrounding sounds.
But within the castle walls, the night was restless. The courtyard breathed with activity — the crunch of boots on gravel, the muted jingle of horse tack, the low hum of orders passed just above a whisper. The air was sharp with the bite of late October, every breath blooming briefly in the torchlight before vanishing into the blackness of the night.
Above, the sky was a vast canvas of deep ink, pricked with cold yellow stars.
Torches blazed along the outer gates, their flames bending eastward under a steady wind.
At the top of the stone steps, Scarface leaned lazily against the balustrade beside one of his cousin's commanders. Scarface was swaddled in a robe so ostentatious it seemed meant for a throne room, not a war council.
