Stormcrest rose from the grey stone hills like a mountain carved by the hands of giants. Its towers pierced the clouds, and its walls had stood for centuries, weathered by war and wind but never broken.
Banners bearing the crest of House Stormcrest snapped in the cold wind—a storm cloud split by a bolt of lightning, the mark of a family that had learned to endure.
Inside the estate, Duke Vane sat at his desk, reading through reports that all said the same thing. The monsters were still coming. His soldiers were still dying. The Royal Army was still silent. Four days had passed since he sent the letter to the mercenary leader, and every hour of waiting felt like a year.
A knock came at the door, and the Duke told whoever it was to enter. His son Edric walked in, tall and broad-shouldered, with the same cold grey eyes as his father. He carried a letter in his hand.
"The Iron Hounds sent a response," Edric said, placing the folded parchment on the desk.
