Dawn broke over the Ironwood Taiga not with golden warmth, but with the cold, pale luminescence of frosted steel. High atop the battlements of Fort Fenris, the wind blew fierce and biting, carrying with it the ominous, rhythmic thrum of iron war-drums from the southern gorges. Astrid stood on the eastern watchtower, wrapped in a thick wolfskin parka lined with arctic fox fur. Beside her, Gunnar Skoll stood with his…
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