Torshavn still bore its scars.
As Riven Sudrath's convoy rolled through the city's southern gates, the first sight to greet them was the cracks running along the stone walls—remnants of a monster tide from three months ago that had yet to be fully repaired. In some places, new stones had been stacked haphazardly, their mortar still damp with morning dew. Yet, beneath it all, the city's foundation remained unyielding. The watchtowers stood tall, and the Sudrath Wolf banners fluttered at their peaks, never once lowered.
Count Eddard Torsen was already waiting at the main gate.
The man, in his forties, wore light armor beneath a grey wool cloak. His face still held lines of exhaustion—three months was not enough to erase the trauma of losing half his city—but his eyes burned with something inextinguishable. Resolve.
Riven stepped down from his command tank, his boots crunching on Torshavn soil still smeared with lingering snow. He looked at Count Eddard and nodded.
