I awoke to the thunder of war drums—deep, reverberating thumps that rattled my bones and pricked every hair on end. The top of Selvarin looked less like a battleground and more like the world itself, washed in that eerie twin‐moon light. Beneath me, the blasted temple's circular walls teemed with Alliance warriors - silverclaw cavalry's thin line glittering in moonlight; blackfang shocktroops standing shoulder to disciplined shoulder; arrowheaded friebrorth scouts winged out like copper‐backed hawks, and iron claw wardens mouting towering elks whose breath steamed from lungs of chilled air.
I took a shuddering breath, tightening my grip on the hilt of my dagger while I did so to make up for the shake in them—leather warm through glove. My free hand rested on the old codex slapping against my belt—its pages bearing Caldera's long‐lost Rite of Moondawn's Edge. My heartbeat pushed in rhythm with the drums, a reminder of threescore crescents on my wrist.
