Chapter 43 — What Power Remembers
The rain did not stop.
It fell through the night and into the morning, a relentless curtain that turned Blackspire's streets slick and reflective, torches hissing as water kissed flame. The city moved beneath it with grim purpose wagons rolling, messengers running, smiths hammering beneath awnings as if they could forge certainty from iron alone.
War no longer waited at the edges.
It walked openly toward them.
Elowen stood in the war room at dawn, sleeves rolled, hair pulled back, eyes tracing the lines on the map as if she could feel the land beneath her fingertips. Red markers had multiplied overnight roads cut, villages emptied, banners raised. Alaric no longer hid behind ideology. He marched under it.
"He's consolidating," Ryn said, voice tight. "Three columns. Slow but deliberate. He's letting everyone see him coming."
Kael leaned against the far wall, arms folded, eyes half-lidded as though listening to something no one else could hear.
