On the seventh day, the sun bled across the horizon like a wound.
And there, rising from the valley floor like a dream carved from winter itself... the heart of winter.
Caelen reined his horse to a halt on the crest of the final hill, and for a moment, he simply stared.
The capital of Nevareth.
Magnificent. Terrible. Beautiful in the way that dangerous things are beautiful... all sharp edges and cold light and the promise of something that could either save you or destroy you.
The palace itself dominated the skyline, its ice-carved spires reaching toward the sky with architectural audacity that defied physics. Walls rose from the valley like frozen waves caught mid-crash, and even from this distance, Caelen could see the way light refracted through them, casting rainbow patterns across the snow.
But beauty couldn't hide tragedy.
