The last of the gates between the West and South closed at dawn—deliberately, with finality.
Killan Valmird stood on the ramparts, cloak snapping in the wind as iron bars slid into place below. Chains groaned. Counterweights dropped. The outer gate locked, then the inner. Signal flags were raised along the walls—red and black, visible for miles.
He watched it all without comment.
Stone met stone. Iron kissed iron. The sound echoed down the valley and was swallowed by distance.
"Seal everything south of the river," Killan said at last, his voice carrying cleanly across the wall. "No passage without writ. No exceptions."
"Yes, Your Grace," the captains answered as one.
The mechanisms completed their work. Dust drifted. The gate settled.
Beyond it, the western road stretched pale and empty, curving away into land that does not answer to him. Somewhere along that road—far beyond sight, beyond messenger reach—his wife, the Queen, rode.
Killan did not let his gaze linger.
