I had never seen anything like the summit of Selvarin.
We reached the extreme edge of Veilwood, and at dawn rode out into a world that seemed like it belonged half above ground and half in the sky. The trees ended and scrubland gave way to ragged stone outcroppings with veins of ice-blue arcane energy laced through it. Before us was the Temple of Selvarin: low, circular walls of silvered obsidian, shattered but standing complete except that within it gaped a chasm hewn in living stone. Leylines throbbed beneath the rock like sleeping hearts being astirred.
A stillness less natural came over our host: Silverclaw riders with their moon-steel-blades in a crescent, Blackfang footmen then at spearwall behind them, Freeborn sentries poised for flanking attacks and wardens of Ironclaw who thrust the great antlers of elks to fix banners. The sky above extended wide, empty—until the first moon rose.
