The Alps-Draconia Pass was a lethal monument of nature's indifference. Its towering granite walls rose on either side like the jagged teeth of an ancient, petrified beast, seemingly ready to crush anyone daring enough to navigate its frozen throat. At the base of the gorge, ankle-deep snow—treacherous and bone-chilling—shrouded the slick, obsidian-colored rocks. The wind, howling through the narrow crevices, sounded like the banshee wail of a primordial monster. Yet, on this fateful afternoon, the raw voice of nature was drowned out by a far more artificial discord: the rhythmic, heavy thrum of hundreds of hooves galloping from the southwest.
The House Sudrath convoy ground to a halt at the narrowest bottleneck of the pass. Captain Elian, a man whose instincts had been forged in the crucible of a hundred skirmishes and sharpened under Sir Riven's brutal tutelage, raised a closed fist high above his head.
