Iron Hearth Castle – Northreach. Night – Two Days After the Basilisk Incident.
The massive, pitch-black iron gates of Iron Hearth Castle groaned as they swung open, a majestic sound that echoed through the snow-capped peaks of the North. It was a sound that usually heralded the return of a conquering army or a diplomatic envoy from the capital.
Tonight, however, the cargo was far more delicate—and far more anxious.
A black military carriage, reinforced with steel plates and bearing the Golden Lion crest, rattled across the cobblestone courtyard. Inside the carriage, General Riven Sudrath, the man who had stared down a thousand bayonets without blinking, was currently a vibrating mess of nerves. His left shoulder was still wrapped in thick, white linen bandages from the Basilisk's toxic bite, but the sweat beading on his forehead had nothing to do with physical pain.
It was pure, unadulterated trepidation.
