Castle Ravenspire had stood upon its jagged granite crag for four hundred years. It cast its dark shadow over the peasant villages of the Maras Valley.
It had survived twelve feudal sieges, three peasant rebellions, and a barbarian fire-storm.
It wasn’t prepared for Inquisitor Malric Ostrander.
Ostrander stood in the grand courtyard of the castle, holding his dark wood clipboard in one hand and a six-foot folding rule in the other.
Beside him, two junior inspectors in wool coats were testing the mortar joints with pointed stonework trowels.
Duke Brandon of the Southern March stood on the castle steps. He was surrounded by his leftover household knights.
The Duke was clad in gold-trimmed plate armor, his hand resting on the handle knob of his old family broadsword, his face white with fury.
“This is the old family seat of the House of Brandon.” the Duke bellowed, his voice echoing off the damp, moss-covered stone walls. “King Castellan the First granted this rock to my forefathers by blood-right. You have no power here, clerk.”
