The early dusk descended gently over the southern valley, painting the sky in deep shades of indigo, rose, and burnished gold. A cool, crisp mountain air flowed through the valley basin, carrying the rich scents of damp soil, pine resin, and the sweet, fermented aroma of autumn apples from the nearby grove.
The low limestone battlements of the citadel were completely out of sight beyond the northern ridges, and with them, the endless, grinding demands of continental governance. The open ledgers, the administrative seal stamps, and the constant stream of courier dispatches were miles away, leaving only the quiet reality of the clearing and the rising stonework before us.
I stood beside the newly completed fourth course of granite, running my palm over the smooth, level top of the masonry.
