The wind along the North–West border carried the scent of iron and pine.
It moved through the ridgelines in long, low breaths, bending the tall grass and whispering through the narrow passes that cut between stone and forest. From a distance, the land looked empty - untouched, quiet in the way only borderlands could be.
Up close, it was watched.
Dane stood at the edge of a high outcrop overlooking the valley below, his cloak drawn close against the wind. The colors of his house - black and ash - blended easily with the rock and shadow, breaking the shape of him against the jagged line of the cliff.
Below, the land stretched toward the North.
Toward their capital.
He did not move for a long time.
His attention remained fixed on the valley, on the narrow road that curved through it, on the distant treeline where the North began to take hold of the terrain. He studied it the way a hunter studied ground he intended to cross, not for what it was, but for what it allowed.
