The Hollow Fang Fortress wasn't built.
It was bled into existence.
Carved into the spine of the Blackshade Mountains, the fortress rose from the cliff face like the jagged bones of some ancient creature, its towers blackened by centuries of shadowfire and storms. The air here reeked of old blood, twisted magic, and secrets buried too deep to rot.
Riven pressed his body to the slick stone wall just beneath the south tower, heart steady but sharp. Above him, sentries in twisted iron armor moved like wraiths—silent, efficient, blind to the edges of the dark.
He had spent three days navigating the frostbitten cliffs, surviving on moonroot paste and melted snow. His skin was cut raw, his cloak stank of wolf musk and ash, and yet his eyes gleamed with fire.
He hadn't come here to survive.
He'd come here to steal the truth.
