"Forty thousand," Aeron called over the wind.
Serena's stomach dropped. "Forty thousand?"
Row after row of soldiers marched across the snow in precise formations, weaving in and out of fortress walls. Velanthor spanned multiple mountains. Obsidian towers rose at each corner, their peaks lost in the swirling clouds.
"The High General doesn't take chances." Aeron's eyes were fixed on the fortress, calculating. "He's been preparing for something. Or someone."
They stayed hidden behind a ridge of snow-covered rocks, timing the patrols. Guards changed position every few minutes with clockwork precision.
"I need to tell you something before we go any further," Aeron said quietly. "This fortress is resistant to mage magic. The entire structure is woven with dampening wards. I can feel them from here, pressing against my senses like a weight."
"What does that mean for us?" Elara asked.
