The City of Masks
Frosthold rose from the northern cliffs like a blade carved from ice—tall spires of stone and silver, sharp as the winds that lashed the city walls. Built atop ancient ley lines, its towers hummed faintly with magic long thought forgotten… or forbidden.
They arrived at dusk, cloaked and hooded, slipping in through one of the smuggler gates Rian had once used to escape capture.
The city felt… different.
Not just colder. But watched.
"I don't like this," Rian murmured as they entered the outer ward. "Too quiet. Even the street hawks are whispering."
"Frosthold doesn't shout," Kael said. "It listens."
Elira looked up at the banners fluttering above: the silver serpent coiled around a frozen rose—the Frostborne crest. To most, it stood for order. Discipline. Control.
To her, it was starting to look like a leash.
⸻
They found temporary shelter in the oldest quarter of the city—where runes still marked the stones, and the underground mage circles had once hidden in plain sight. Rian secured the safehouse. Kael scouted the patrol routes.
Elira spent her time studying the people.
Guards wore polished armor—but their hands hovered near their hilts far too often. Nobles smiled too easily. Even the children looked over their shoulders when they laughed.
This wasn't a kingdom at peace.
It was a kingdom waiting for the storm to hit.