Write first. Outline never.

The morning fog clung to the ruins like a burial shroud. Elena picked her way through the rubble of what had once been the great market square, her boots crunching on frost-covered stone. She could still remember the vendors' calls, the smell of spiced wine drifting between the stalls.

That was before the siege. Before everything burned.

She tightened her grip on the crystal staff, feeling the familiar pulse of stored energy against her palm. It had been her mother's, and her grandmother's before that. Forged in the deep furnaces beneath the mountain when the world was younger and magic flowed freely through the ley lines.

The staff's light had dimmed since the Pact shattered. Now it pulsed weakly, a heartbeat fading.

She passed through the broken gate of Ashenmoor, where the iron portcullis hung twisted from a single hinge. Three years since the siege, and no one had come to rebuild. No one dared.

But Elena had a reason to return. The Pact's keystone was still here, buried beneath the cathedral. If she could reach it before the Hollow Court's scouts arrived, there might still be a chance. Slim as morning light through storm clouds, but a chance all the same.

She moved faster now, her cloak whipping behind her in the wind that howled through empty streets. Somewhere above, a raven called out. Once. Twice. Then nothing.

Elena gripped the crystal staff, its light flickering in the storm. She had carried it since the siege of Ashenmoor, three years ago, when Alena first learned the cost of war.

The battle had taken place two winters ago, or so the histories claimed. The scholars at the Ivory Tower had their own reckoning of the days, and none of them agreed on much of anything.

She raised the pale crystal staff and stepped into the ruined courtyard. The Hollow Court's banners still hung from the parapets, torn and blackened by fire.

Kael would have told her to wait for reinforcements. But Kael was three days' ride south, and the keystone wouldn't wait.

The throne room stretched before them, vast and silent. Kael stood at the threshold, his hand resting on the pommel of his blade, trying to remember the words the old seer had spoken.

But the words wouldn't come. They scattered like startled birds whenever he reached for them, leaving only the echo of a warning he couldn't quite piece together.

Elena watched him from across the chamber, her staff dim, her expression unreadable. She knew something was wrong. She always did.