Dawn crept in slow, gray, and cold.

The fortress still smelled of rain, smoke, and blood — the scents braided into every corridor like the memory of a nightmare that refused to fade.

From the highest balcony, Elaria watched the courtyard below. Wolves moved through the rubble with weary precision: dragging beams into place, gathering the wounded, stacking the fallen into shrouded lines along the wall. Each body lowered was a name burned into her heart.

Draven stood beside her, silent, one ...