(Nova POV)
Month seven arrived wrapped in the first true frost of autumn, but Blackspire refused to feel cold.
The bailey had been transformed over the past three days into something I could barely recognize as the same place where blood had once pooled between the stones. Lanterns of colored glass hung from every arch and tower — soft gold, silver, and deep emerald — swaying gently in the night wind. Long tables groaned under platters of roasted venison, fresh bread still warm from the ovens, honeyed fruits from the southern traders, and barrels of spiced ale that filled the air with cinnamon and clove. Musicians from the eastern marches had arrived with Kieran's blessing — fiddles, drums, and a harp carved from storm-wood that sang like distant thunder when the strings were plucked.
