Snowflakes whipped about in the pre-dawn light. Wrapped in the heavy leather cloaks bought from the locals, we rode swiftly toward Tremorden. Having recently traveled from the south, our coats had not thickened against the cold as was usual. Thus we were forced to rely on the garments for the duration of our stay, which would likely be lengthened by the previous night’s events.

Helmeted voices sounded hollowly from torchlit battlements when we arrived, accompanied by the metallic raising of the portcullis. My tail twitched in impatience as we handed over our mounts and were subsequently ushered into the fortress-like entrance, Tremorden’s keep. Halstead kept pace with me, and I found myself glad for his company in the face of what awaited.

At the final heavy door, I pushed the protesting courier aside with one paw and shoved the door open, revealing Lord Feyald standing before a table full of maps. A startled snarl contorted his muzzle.

“So,” I charged “you arrange for me to marry your possessed daughter?”