Sentinel's Watch was less a castle and more a mountain that had been convinced, through sheer force of will and centuries of labor, to become a fortress. It was a brutal, functional outcropping of dark stone grafted onto a cliff face, its towers like broken fangs against the endless white. Inside, it was a labyrinth of low ceilings, roaring fireplaces, and the pervasive, damp-stone smell of a place that never truly thawed.
The Mountain Watch had melted into its shadows upon arrival, and our knights were absorbed into the relentless rhythm of the garrison. There were no formal welcomes, no ceremonies. There was only the work: checking stores, mending gear, and trading news from the southern road for grim reports from the farther patrols. The silence from the Abyssal Rift was a tension in every room, a tightness around the eyes of every soldier.
