Meanwhile, in the rolling emerald hills north of Savadra, the Silverstone Castle blazed beneath the late-afternoon sun, its pale stone ramparts gleaming like molten silver, like a beacon against a sea of silver pines and dark cypress.
The air was scented with pine and the faint resinous tang of cypress, and from a distance the fortress looked unassailable—its proud towers etched against the sky like a promise of safety.
But inside its keep—the fortress within the fortress—the air was different. It was thick, stale and too still. The grand chamber, meant to be a refuge in times of siege, had become a prison.
The scrape of boots on stone and the faint jingle of armor filled the silence between muted sobs. Women sat on the floor, clutching children to their chests, whispering comfort in voices too calm to be believed. The elderly hunched against the cold wall, their eyes cloudy, as though seeing something far away.
