The eve of the royal wedding descended upon the Blackfang Stronghold like a heavy, suffocating shroud. The air was unnaturally still, the blizzard that had plagued the mountains for weeks having retreated into a deceptive, icy calm.
Throughout the fortress, the atmosphere was frantic yet silent; servants scurried through the dimly lit halls to hang the final ceremonial banners of violet and charcoal, their faces pale with an unspoken dread. The scent of bitter almonds seemed to seep from the very cracks in the ancient stone, thick enough to taste.
High in the North Tower, Gwen stood by the narrow slit of her window, staring out at the jagged peaks of the Iron Mountains. The "maid's rags" she had been forced to wear—drab, rough-hewn wool—felt like sandpaper against her skin, a constant reminder of her fallen status.
But beneath the humble fabric, her body was humming with a dangerous, unstable energy.
