The battle in the pass had been won, but the cost was steep. The Raven Clan—cold, exhausted, and mourning their dead—huddled in the rocky defile as Lord Osric WindHammer stood before the sheer, icy face of the mountain. Caer Y Cudd. Home. It presented no gate, no door, only an unbroken cliff face. "Malach," Osric ordered, his voice raw. The Ranger stepped forward. "You found the pass. Now, find the door." Malach and his 'Fist' of Rangers ran their hands over the frozen rock,

The last wagon groaned, its wooden wheels sinking into the mud of the Trough of Bowland. Malach, his hand resting on the stock of his crossbow, watched it clear the last fortified farm. This was it. After years of carving a life from the soil of Estacarr, the Raven Clan was on the move. He glanced back at the long column. This was no army. It was a people. Families, children, and elderly were bundled into the wagons, surrounded by herds of goats and stubborn mastiffs. Lord Os

The Great Hold of Ganekhaz, The High Halls of Clan Herewydd The air in Chief Brokk "Gilded-Horn" Herewydd's hall was thick with the smoke of Steinor goat-fat candles and the tension of unspoken dissent. Thurgrom Stonefist stood at rigid attention, his gaze fixed on the malachite gemstone that served as his chief's left eye. Borin Rock-Heel stood a pace behind him, his arms crossed, his weight shifted in a way Thurgrom recognised as pure, stubborn disapproval. "The order stand