The road narrowed as it climbed, the wheels of the carriage grinding against stone that had been carved rather than id. Ironspine loomed closer with every turn, its shadow cutting the afternoon light into deliberate angles. The air grew cooler, thinner, touched with the mineral sharpness of exposed rock.

  I leaned forward, peering out through the carriage window as the world shifted around us.

  This city was older than the capital proper. I could feel it in the way the streets refused to straighten, hugging the mountain's natural rise instead of defying it. Buildings stepped upward rather than spreading outward, their backs pressed hard against the cliff face like supplicants seeking protection. Stone dominated everything—walls, arches, balconies, even the rooflines—broken only by narrow ribbons of greenery coaxed from hanging gardens and channeled water.

  The manor appeared gradually, revealed by the curve of the road rather than announced.

  The Duke's home did not sit atop Ironspine like a crown. It was embedded into it.

  The main structure rose out of the mountainside in pale stone blocks fitted so seamlessly against the cliff that it was difficult to tell where human architecture ended and raw rock began. Buttresses descended straight into the mountain's ribs, massive and uncompromising, while terraces yered upon themselves in orderly tiers, each reinforced by older stone that bore faint geometric etchings worn smooth by time.

  The windows were narrow and deep-set, angled inward rather than outward, their gss catching the sun only briefly before surrendering it back to the stone. No sprawling balconies. No frivolous ornament.

  It was a pce built to survive.

  Etienne took the final approach on horseback, crest and cloak pin for all to see. He rode beside the carriage, posture easy in the saddle, his horse sure-footed on the incline.

  "The First Men were fond of efficiency," he said. "We were sensible enough not to dismantle it."

  The First Men. We called them that because lore had it that humans descended from them.

  They called themselves Kharad—dwarves, in their tongue. Not because they were small—they were not—but because they believed that all were humble before the mountain.

  The gates loomed closer—massive sbs of stone reinforced with metal bands that disappeared directly into the mountain face. There were no chains. No visible hinges.

  When they opened, it was without sound.

  Stone slid against stone with a whispering smoothness that raised goosebumps along my arms. No groan of strain. No protest.

  The mountain simply... parted.

  The carriage passed through, and the world changed once again.

  Sound dulled immediately, swallowed by thick walls and ancient stone. Even the horses' hooves seemed quieter in the wide forecourt beyond the gates. Water flowed everywhere here, channeled through narrow grooves cut into the ground, disappearing into iron grates etched with angur patterns that did not match human script.

  Gardens clung to the stone in deliberate arrangements—ferns, low shrubs, pale flowers coaxed from impossible soil. The scent was clean and faintly metallic.

  I felt it then. The pressure beneath my feet.

  Not just the weight of the mountain, but the weight of what y under it.

  Ironspine was what the maps called it.

  The First Men had called it Marrudun.

  That which endures.

  The carriages came to a stop. Etienne dismounted smoothly and approached, offering Lumiere his hand. She accepted with serene grace, though she winced faintly as her boots met the stone. Etienne steadied her without comment, his touch careful, reverent.

  He gestured toward the wide doors set directly into the mountain face. "You are welcome to stay here for as long as you require. The guest wing has been prepared. You have traveled far, and the mountain is not kind to the weary."

  Inside, the manor was cool and bright, lit by shafts of sunlight drawn down through narrow openings. The walls were stone throughout, but polished and fitted with care. In pces, faint carvings had been smoothed rather than erased—older lines beneath newer ones, dwarven geometry softened to suit human hands.

  The halls curved subtly. Evelyn fell in step behind me as we turned toward the guest wing, her whistle echoing along the stonework.

  Servants appeared without fuss, guiding us through arched passageways. Doors opened onto rooms that were generous without being extravagant: wide beds with heavy frames, thick rugs, writing desks carved from pale wood. Windows looked out toward the terraced gardens.

  Rocher slowed as we passed through the guest wing, his gaze lingering in a way that had nothing to do with the furnishings.

  "Oh," he said suddenly, stopping in the doorway of one of the rooms. "This one."

  Etienne gnced back, faintly curious. "You recognize it?"

  Rocher huffed a soft ugh. "Unfortunately."

  He stepped inside without waiting for permission, peering around with the air of someone bracing for a scolding that never came. "I used to hide under that bed," he added, pointing. "There was a loose panel in the frame. Perfect for avoiding lessons."

  I raised an eyebrow. "You?"

  "As a boy," he crified. "Before anyone decided I was meant to be tolerable."

  Evelyn snorted.

  Rocher leaned against the windowsill, memory clearly loosening his posture. "Whenever there was a gathering, I'd run through these halls like they were mine. Banging on doors. Asking impossible questions."

  His smile turned wry. "I didn't realize until much ter that the people inside those rooms were ministers. Foreign dignitaries. Men and women who could have started wars by sneezing wrong."

  "They just let you do that?" Lumiere asked, incredulous.

  "They endured me," he corrected. "Because my mother insisted I be treated like any other child. Which meant I was everyone's problem."

  His gaze flicked briefly to Etienne, something affectionate and faintly apologetic passing between them.

  "I once stole pastries from a visiting envoy's breakfast tray," Rocher continued. "He chased me down the hall in formal robes and slippers. Slipped on the rugs. I thought it was the funniest thing I'd ever seen."

  "And now?" I asked quietly.

  He shrugged, the nostalgia settling into something gentler. "Now I know why he looked so offended. Those pastries were probably a diplomatic gift."

  There was no bitterness in his voice. Just rueful understanding.

  This pce did not remind him of power.

  It reminded him of being small.

  "You can have this one," Etienne said mildly. "Please. There are more rooms than needed. Choose as you like."

  No implication. No expectation.

  Just choice.

  I already knew what I was going to say.

  "I'd like my own room," I said.

  The words were quiet. Deliberate.

  Evelyn did not look surprised. She just sighed and shook her head.

  "You know as well as I do that isn't going to fly," she said. "Not with the orders we're under."

  Doug shuffled in behind her. "Aye. Our orders are for surveilnce. Round-the-clock while we're in the Duchy."

  "Yes," Evelyn agreed. Then, without raising her voice, "Which I'll be handling." She looked at him. "Alone."

  Doug blinked. "But Guildmaster—"

  "What? Were you intending to occupy a dy's room?"

  Dougs elbowed him. "That's why you'll be single forever, d."

  Doug elbowed back, hard. "Are we getting reassigned then?" he asked while Dougs wheezed.

  "Not exactly."

  Evelyn turned to the Duke. "Your Grace, was I correct in seeing servants' quarters near the kitchen?"

  Etienne nodded.

  "Then that's where you two will be stationed."

  "Is that not very far from here?" Dougs asked once he caught his breath.

  "Yes, but it's an important job," she said. "If someone poisons the Duke's food, I want to know before it reaches our table." She leaned in. "And as I'm sure you're aware, the Duchy is quite famous for its delicacies."

  The two Night Wardens looked at each other with astonishment.

  "Of course!"

  "That's why you're our Guildmaster."

  They moved off, already arguing quietly about who got to taste-test first.

  Evelyn turned back to Etienne. "I'll take the room assigned to Cire."

  Etienne inclined his head. "Very well."

  Halfway through the exchange I'd already drifted off. I busied myself with helping Lumiere unpack.

  Night settled over Ironspine slowly, the mountain holding onto the day's warmth longer than the lownds ever could. Lanterns bloomed along the terraced streets below, their light catching on stone and water alike, turning the city into a scatter of quiet stars.

  I stood at the open gallery that wrapped the guest wing, hands resting against the cool stone of the balustrade. The drop beyond it was sheer enough to make my stomach tilt if I leaned too far forward. The city clung to the mountain below in deliberate yers, every street and stair shaped by elevation and necessity rather than comfort.

  Behind me, a door opened and closed softly.

  Not Evelyn. I could feel where she was without looking—seated farther back along the gallery, boots up on a low bench, posture loose, attention divided between us and the passing servants. Close enough to intervene. Far enough to pretend she was not listening.

  Rocher stopped a few paces away.

  "You're pacing," he said mildly.

  I gnced down at my feet and frowned. "Am I?"

  "Yes," he said. "Very deliberately."

  I huffed a quiet breath and leaned my weight more firmly against the stone. "I think the mountain's getting to me."

  He came closer, resting his own forearms against the railing beside me, leaving a careful span of stone between us.

  "It does that," he said after a moment. "Makes it hard to sit still. You feel like you're supposed to do something."

  That nded uncomfortably close to the truth.

  Below us, ughter drifted up from one of the lower terraces. Music followed it, faint but lively, winding its way through the stone like a pulse.

  Rocher's gaze tracked the sound, then returned to me.

  "Well," he said lightly, "if sleeping isn't in the cards..."

  I looked at him.

  "...there is a city attached to this mountain."

  I hesitated. "You're suggesting—"

  "A walk," he said. "Food, maybe. Wine. Streets I haven't seen in a long time." His mouth curved, familiar and unrepentant. "Strictly reconnaissance."

  From behind us, Evelyn snorted. "I heard that," she said. "And if this is reconnaissance, I expect a report."

  Rocher gnced back at her, unfazed. "Naturally."

  Evelyn's gaze flicked to me. Not permission. Not warning. Just awareness.

  I returned my attention to the city, to the ntern-lit paths carved into Ironspine's fnk. Old stone. Old design. A pce that endured by adapting rather than yielding.

  And me, standing still when every instinct urged movement.

  "Alright," I said finally. "One night."

  Rocher's grin was immediate and entirely too pleased. "Excellent. I promise to behave."

  Somehow I doubted that. Very much.

  Evelyn rose as we turned away from the railing, stretching like a cat. "I'll give you a head start," she said zily. "Try not to start any incidents before I catch up."

  Rocher took my hand and led me back inside, the mountain humming quietly beneath our feet.

  We were not retreating into safety.

  We were stepping forward.