Two days after leaving Iron Hearth, the convoy reached the final ridge overlooking Northveil.
Rianor raised the crystal binoculars to his eyes. In the distance, the city stretched out under the fading twilight—or rather, what remained of it. The Needle Spire, once the graceful icon of Northveil, was now a jagged stump. Snapped. Shattered. Like a broken bone that had never been set.
Faint plumes of smoke still drifted from several spots, the lingering embers of a destruction that refused to die. Buildings that once soared were now skeletal husks. Rubble was everywhere.
Beside him, Hektor remained silent. His hands were clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. His face—usually rigid and clinical—had shifted. There was a coldness there. A burning, frozen rage.
"Hektor," Rianor said, lowering the binoculars.
"I'm fine." Hektor's voice was flat. Too flat.
Rianor didn't push. He knew. He knew the agony Hektor felt, seeing his own city reduced to such a state.
