The new castle rose like a dream sculpted from living rock, a fortress born from the heart of the mountain itself.
Snow-capped peaks surrounded it in a solemn embrace, while a silver mist serpentined between the crags at dawn. In the distance, the sun barely touched the highest towers, making the crystals embedded in its walls return golden flashes, as if light slept within them and awakened with each dawn.
The air there had an ancient weight. It smelled of damp stone, of wildflowers that grew between the cracks, and of the slight perfume of magic that permeated the environment. Ronan had chosen it for a reason: that bastion was not just a fortress, but a sanctuary.
