The sea winds whipped cold against the cliff bastion of House Marvik, carrying with them the iron tang of storm and salt.
Within the hall, lanterns burned steadily despite the drafts, their glow pooling over maps, wine, and anxious faces.
Lord Marvik stood at the head of the table, his posture as straight as the mast of a ship. "It is done," he said, voice level. "Emberhold has fallen. Ignarion is no more."
Across from him, Lady Caltrisse leaned heavily on her cane. The firelight picked out the deep furrows of her face, her eyes like wet stones.
"No more?" she rasped. "Or merely hiding? Veltharion was a man who did not die when told. Missing is not dead. Missing is plotting."
Alaric's fingers drummed once against the map.
"Missing is irrelevance until proven otherwise. Trade routes care little for ghosts. His tollmen are ash. Our caravans will now flow unbound along the southern corridors. We should seize the pulse while it is free to beat."
