The jagged, snow-capped peaks of the Western Ridge rose like iron teeth against the crisp autumn sky, but for the first time in months, the bitter wind did not carry the scent of war. As The Sentinel cut through the low-hanging clouds, its massive silk sails straining against the northern drafts, the gray stone walls of the Blackfang Fortress finally materialized from the mist. It sat nestled within the craggy mountainside like an ancient predator at rest—unyielding, monumental, and fiercely protective.
Down in the valleys, the sirens of the stronghold did not wail a warning. Instead, they let out a long, deep, melodic resonance that echoed across the pine-choked canyons.
