The high mountain pass known as Ironfang Ridge had stood as a grim, blood-stained choke-point between the Blackwood Pack and the Silverfang Basin for three centuries. Perched atop the jagged granite crag was Fort Ironfang: an ugly, black-stone redoubt surrounded by iron caltrops, spiked palisades, and arrow-slits designed to slaughter caravans crossing the border. On a crisp, sunny winter morning, Grand Protector Rowan Blackwood rode up to the gates of…
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