The carriage lurched to a halt, the wheels grinding against the ground as if they too were glad to stop. Cherion stepped down awkwardly, knees stiff from hours of sitting, his legs tingling with pins and needles. His boots squelched slightly when they hit the ground, the reminder of dried blood crusted on his face and clothes making his nose wrinkle.
He brushed at his sleeve, futilely trying to rid himself of the sticky stains. "Sure," he thought, his sarcasm as steady as his heartbeat was not. "Nothing says welcome to the family like looking freshly butchered."
Then he looked up.
The northern stronghold loomed over him like a silent sentinel. Its towers cut into the sky, jagged against the stars. The stone was dark, polished smooth by time and cold winds, gleaming faintly under the sunlight. Iron gates swung wide, groaning with age, and the breath of winter rolled out to greet him.
