The gates of Caer Durell rose from the morning mist like a forgotten monument, vast and cold and unwelcoming. Hewn into the cliffs above the River Dall, the stronghold looked less like a seat of power and more like a tomb.
The Truthmarch halted at the foot of the bridge.
Forty-one riders. Blank banners. And a silence deeper than the river beneath them.
Leon stepped forward first.
No horns greeted them. No guards emerged. Only the slow groan of gears as the ancient drawbridge creaked down across the chasm. On the far end, two wardens in steel-grey robes waited, faces hidden, staves crossed.
"State your purpose," one called.
Leon answered, his voice steady. "We bear the truth. From the Vale Below. From the buried oath. From the First Accord."
The second warden tilted his head. "And who bears it?"
Leon raised his hand, revealing the ring.
"I do. As the last Witness."
A beat passed. Then the staves lowered.
The doors groaned open.
They crossed in silence.
