The grand banquet hall of the Blackfang Citadel roared with a chaotic, beautiful life that the frozen crags of the Wyrmtooth Ridge had never known before. Five years. Five full winter rotations had passed since the dark basalt crown had been placed upon Gwen's silver-charcoal braids, and tonight, the entire frontier was celebrating the absolute stabilization of the hemisphere.
The air was thick and humid, heavy with the rich aroma of honey-glazed wild boar, roasted venison, and the dark, uncalibrated winter ales that the vanguards were slamming onto the scarred mountain-oak tables. Human mechanics from the lower sectors, still wearing faint grease stains on their knuckles, clinked their tin tankards against the heavy silver chalices of Lycan commanders.
