Midnight passed over Stonewake Citadel in deep, freezing stillness.
Inside the stone guest chamber of the lower service ward, the small hearth fire had burned down to a mound of glowing red birch coals. It cast long, peaceful shadows across the vaulted ceiling. On the low pallet against the western wall, Fellis Dain was fast asleep, his breathing deep and even, his braced forearm resting safely upon a rolled wool blanket. Beside his cot, his leather-bound field diary lay closed, filled with thirty-three columns of checked paces, offsets, and angles. Across the room, Yseld Arken lay wrapped in her sheepskin mantel, her hickory staff resting within reach of her hand, resting with the quiet, vigilant stillness of an old mountain scout who could wake at the rustle of a mouse.
Kezra Venn didn’t sleep.
She wore her heavy wool trousers and her high-collared tunic, her boots laced snug against the night chill. Moving with silent, practiced steps that didn’t stir a single floor flag, she unlatched the heavy oak door of the chamber. Then she stepped out onto the narrow stone gallery that ran along the second-story retaining wall overlooking the lowest courtyard.
The highland air hit her face like cold water, shocking her lungs with its pure, crystal-clear bite.
