The dark clouds over Winter's Crown mirrored the tension in the air. Though the sun had set hours ago, the city was far from quiet. Patrols marched through the streets, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls as they scanned the shadows for any sign of trouble. Within the palace, preparations were reaching their peak, yet a sense of unease clung to every corner.
Damien stood on the balcony of the safe house, his steel-gray eyes fixed on the city below. The flickering lanterns of the lower districts looked like distant stars, but he knew they concealed danger. Vale's forces were close—closer than anyone dared to admit—and soon, the storm would break.
Behind him, Amara lounged in a chair, sharpening one of her daggers with slow, deliberate strokes. Her sharp blue eyes watched Damien as if waiting for him to speak.
"You've been staring out there for an hour," she said finally. "What's on your mind?"
Damien didn't turn. "Vale is going to strike tonight."
