Rain lashes against the basalt gates of the citadel, turning the long mile of Naia’s ascent into a river of mountain silt. She stands before the iron-bound timber, her widow’s wools sodden and heavy as lead against her calves. The captain of the guard looms above the battlements, his face a blurred mask of steel and suspicion in the deluge. He does not offer a greeting; no one welcomes a river-witch at midnight.
“The Ord is failing,” Naia calls out, her voice a low, melodic rasp that cuts through the thunder. She lifts one hand, the three black river-pearls at her throat catching the torchlight in oily glimmers. “I have come to claim the first of three favours sworn in blood.”
The guard hesitates, the spear in his hand dipping as he recognizes the silver-thread sigils on her sleeves. Seven winters of silence break in a single, grinding groan of machinery. Naia stays her ground, the cold water pooling around her bare feet, her slate-glass eyes fixed on the gap widening in the stone.
The heavy iron portcullis shudders upward, revealing a broad silhouette stepping forward into the downpour.
