The portcullis groans up, and Kynes steps through with Bren into the dawn. Cold air spills over the threshold, carrying wet grass, stone dust, and the long breath of open plains.

Below them, the watchtower’s outer steps break apart in violet flashes. Ahead lies a saddle of black rock, a narrow goat path, and a road silvered by morning frost.

Bren shifts the ledger tighter under her arm and glances toward the plains, where the wind tugs at her hair like a warning. The tower behind them falls silent, as if listening.