He was finally there, at the end of that long road, standing before the Fingers, that monstrous stronghold which served as the hinge between the Empire's beating heart and the rebellious provinces that clung to the north and east.
It was the gatehouse to two worlds, the choke point on which entire realms balanced, and the last great bastion Alpheo would have to seize before he could even entertain the faintest hope of setting foot in Yarzat again.
Warmth stirs in his chest at the thought, quickly extinguished by the notion that one less soul would accompany him on that journey.
He sat silently in his saddle, scarcely feeling the reins in his hands, his gaze climbing the colossal walls that rose like a broken knife wedged between two mountains. The Fingers did not resemble a fortress built by mortal ambition; they looked like something gouged out of the earth, like a castle made on a sand beach.
