The corridors of Frosthold were quiet at this hour: the morning meal long since finished, the warriors dispersed to their duties in the training yards and along the walls, and the servants busy with their tasks in the kitchens and the great hall. The usual bustle of the fortress had settled into a steady rhythm, the sounds of daily life echoing off the ancient stone: the clang of the smith's hammer, the shout of a drill sergeant, and the distant laughter of children at play.
Elara walked alone, her steps slow, her heart heavy in her chest. She had not slept and could not sleep, not with the distance between her brother and her sister still unresolved or with the coldness that had settled over Frosthold, like a winter frost that refused to thaw. The shadows under her eyes were deep, and her hands trembled slightly as she clasped them before her.
She had prayed. She had hoped. She had waited.
