The scent of pine wood and alpine frost had been completely banished from the royal quarters of the Blackfang Fortress. In its place lingered the heavy, metallic tang of boiling silver salves, blood-purifying charcoal, and the bitter, sharp aroma of crushed northern nightshade. It was the smell of a infirmary, but worse—it was the smell of a siege where the walls were intact, but the soldiers were rotting from the inside out.
Gwen stood by the grand arched window of the master bedchamber, her hands resting flat against the cold stone sill. The sky over the Western Ridge was a dark, bruised violet, the morning sun blocked by a heavy, unmoving canopy of winter clouds. Down in the outer courtyards, the silence was deafening. There were no booming laughs from the Lycan warriors, no rhythmic clashing of iron shields during morning drills, and no thundering footsteps of the vanguard.
The fortress was quiet because its marrow was being systematically drained.
