Nibadur looked up at the mountain of stone that stood between him and his destiny, and for the first time, the word victory suddendly didn't come so easily upon his lips
Mh.
He had always been a man of iron certainty, but looking at the Bastion made that certainty waver. Calling this a "castle" was like calling a mountain-lion a common house cat. He had received reports of its construction, of the years of labor and the staggering costs Alpheo had poured into the earth, but words on parchment were hollow things.
They did not prepare the soul for the reality of it.
The walls rose ahead of him, tall and impossibly thick, like the petrified trunks of ancient oaks.
The architecture was queer but its purpose was undeniably deadly. Scaling those walls would have been a nightmare under any circumstances, but as he peered through the crisp air, he saw the glint of sun on thousands of helmets.
It was also well-manned.
