The guard led them deeper into the fortress, boots striking stone in a steady rhythm that echoed through the carved corridors. The mountain walls rose close on either side, rough in some places, smoothed in others where decades of passage had worn them down. Torches burned within iron brackets, their flames steady despite the drafts that slipped through hidden cracks in the stone.
Noir walked silently at Noel's side, her claws barely making a sound against the floor.
Behind them, the distant grind of the gate lowering faded. The howl of the wind diminished with each turn they took, snow and storm gradually replaced by the insulated stillness of the inner keep.
The corridors eventually widened.
The great doors to the throne hall stood ahead, carved with the sigil of Iskandar—steel and frost intertwined. The guard pushed them open and stepped aside.
Noel entered.
The change was immediate.
