The night air was still filled with fine snow when Sylvia's carriage stopped directly before the gates of Anarats. Gray stone walls loomed, sheathed in a thin glaze of ice that reflected the torchlight. Yellow flames trembled atop iron posts, as if struggling against the northern chill.
City guards stood in a tight formation before the main gate. Their armor glinted dully, dusted with clinging snow. Long spears with keen iron tips were leveled forward, barring anyone approaching along the white-draped road.
One of them, a man with an open-faced helm and cheeks reddened by the cold, stepped out. His eyes narrowed at the black carriage that had halted without a driver. "Halt. State your purpose for entering Anarats." His voice was firm, though a hint of uncertainty bled through.
