Chapter 88: The Calculus of Mountains
The scrape of steel was a cold, clarifying note in the thin mountain air. It severed the lingering tendrils of psychic disquiet and replaced them with a simpler, more ancient tension. Fifty of Valerius's personal guard, their armor gleaming with the oily sheen of courtly wealth, faced off against Varian's dozen weathered veterans and a garrison of three hundred broken, swaying men.
But numbers were a deceptive metric. Valerius's men were fresh, well-equipped, and loyal to their lord's ambition. The Frosthold garrison were ghosts in uniform, their hands trembling on spear shafts, their will to fight or to do anything crumbling like dry clay. Varian's dozen were elite, but they were a tripwire, not a wall.
