In a past that will never be forgotten by those who know. The night Veyra Thornehart spent her last moments alive was quieter than most nights in Ironhold.
Snow fell beyond the fortress walls, carried by the cold northern wind that howled across the northern mountains before crashing against the stone of Ironhold.
Frost gathered along the outer battlements, creeping across iron railings and frozen banners that barely moved in the night air.
Inside the inner keep, however, the world felt different. The air was warm, thick with the steady glow of oil lamps set along the walls, their flames swaying gently as if even the light itself did not wish to disturb the quiet.
The faint scent of burning cedarwood drifted through the halls, mixed with the smell of old stone and polished steel
Servants moved quietly through the halls, their footsteps light, their voices low. Word had spread that the Duchess should be resting, and no one wished to disturb her.
