The eastern wind howled down Caer Durell's spine like a curse trying to find a mouth. By dawn, snow lashed the lower ramparts, the blue fire guttered to its edges, and every torch along the west-facing corridor burned shorter than it should.
Leon rode before the sun crested the peaks.
No banner. No retinue. Just two riders at his flank—old Gerran, who'd once scouted the Hinterwalls blindfolded, and Naeve, the youngest march-blood still standing after the Vale campaign. Elena had picked them herself. Quiet. Fast. Loyal enough to bleed without needing to be asked.
They took the southern pass first, then veered northwest before the Watch could mark them. The road to Halin's spine was empty—but not dead. Too many footprints in snow that had fallen only hours before. Hoofprints. Heavy tread.
"Someone's circling," Gerran muttered. "They want us to know we're followed."
