Dawn broke over Frosthold like a challenge.
The sky was the colour of hammered steel, pale and hard and unforgiving. A wind had risen in the night, sweeping down from the mountains to cut through the courtyard with icy teeth. It whipped at the banners lining the walls—the Frost crest, a mountain peak wreathed in ice, snapping and cracking in the gusts. It stung exposed skin and made the torches that ringed the training yard gutter and dance, their flames leaning away from the cold as if seeking escape.
The courtyard was already full.
