The iron-grey sky of the Citadel hung low, heavy with the promise of a storm that refused to break. It was a fortress built on the bones of a mountain, a jagged tooth of stone and sorcery that dominated the northern horizon. This was the heart of Aurelius's power, and somewhere within its labyrinthine depths, Gwen was being held.
Lucien and Kaelen stood on a narrow ridge overlooking the primary gatehouse. The wind whipped at Lucien's dark cloak, the fabric snapping like a flag. Beside him, Kaelen was a coiled spring of muscle and fur-lined leather, his nostrils flaring as he caught the scent of the guards—iron, sweat, and the bitter tang of artificial magic.
"The security is tighter than the reports suggested," Lucien whispered, his voice a smooth baritone that betrayed none of the tension coiling in his gut. "They've doubled the sentries at the gate, and those are not mere men. They are Clockwork Sentinels."
