The castle of Marhaevn rose from the fog like an ancient wound upon the mountain, its towers clawing at the sky while banners hung limp in the mist.
The night was heavy with the scent of iron and rain, the kind of air that hummed faintly against the skin and promised a storm.
Inside, behind thick stone and torchlit corridors, noble voices murmured over wine and scandal. Among them, unseen for now, lay the secret that bound Jaenor and Morgana Arkwright together like the thorns of a hidden vine.
In the chamber assigned to him—small by noble standards, but rich with tapestries and polished brass—Jaenor sat alone, drumming his fingers against the armrest.
His aunt, Morgana, had told him to wait, to remain unseen until she returned from her meeting with Baron Roland.
That had been hours ago.
The fire had burned down to embers. Shadows lay long across the walls.
