The ancient stones of Thornwell Hold loomed against the gathering dusk, their shadows stretching long and dark across the cracked flagstones of the courtyard. Within the high walls, a solitary figure moved swiftly, his footsteps muffled by the thick tapestries that lined the narrow corridors. Young Ser Calen Thornwell, the last scion of the ancient bloodline, carried the weight of a legacy he barely understood. His fingers brushed the worn leather of the sigil-etched dagger at his belt, a family heirloom said to be cursed and blessed in equal measure. Outside, the wind whispered through the Veinwood trees, carrying rumors of a stirring darkness that even the oldest lords dared not name. Calen's heart thundered as he approached the chamber where the Council of Splinters would soon convene—a secret gathering of Thornwell's most trusted advisors. Tonight was no ordinary night.