Panstone Fortress in Blackrock County was a fang driven into the county's throat.
The gaps in its walls were packed with frozen moss and the dried blood of generations of defenders.
Marcus Ironwall stood on the lookout platform of the Main Tower, his heirloom mithril plate armor weighing down his increasingly stooped frame.
"My lord Marquis."
The wind tore the captain of the guard's voice to shreds. Marcus turned, his clouded eyes shifting.
"Speak."
"That... that man is here." The captain swallowed. "Hector Ester. He's brought a Cavalry Escort to the drawbridge and demands to see you."
A muscle twitched in Marcus's weather-beaten face.
He shoved the captain aside and strode toward the battlements.
The drawbridge had not been lowered.
The moat had long since frozen over, and against that gray-white sheet of ice, a figure dressed in black velvet formalwear looked utterly out of place.
Hector sat astride a horse with a mottled coat, even carrying a silver-inlaid cane. His leisurely air suggested he was facing his own back garden rather than a fortress armed to the teeth-if one ignored his Anti-Magic Shackles.
"Open the gate," Marcus said through gritted teeth.
"But, my lord, that's-"
"Open the gate!" Marcus roared. "I want to see how this father-killing bastard has the nerve to stand before me!"
The winch creaked, and the drawbridge crashed down, sending ice chips flying.
Escorted by a squad of guards, Hector rode inside.
Hooves struck the flagstones, their echoes ringing through the Barbican amid the guards' heavy, disorderly footsteps. Bows and crossbows were already drawn on the walls to either side, their arrowheads glinting coldly, every one aimed at a vital point on his body.
Hector ignored it all.
The hoofbeats passed through a narrow passage, beyond a second iron-clad gate, and finally into the stone-paved