Eve of the First Clash

By midnight, the blizzard that had threatened the northern horizon swept down into the valley of the Whispering River, howling through the pines and coating the iron palisades in a thick crust of rime. Inside the great pavilion tent of the northern command, four iron braziers burned with aromatic cedar logs, filling the canvas hall with warmth and the gentle crackle of embers. First Marshal Rowan Blackwood sat upon an…