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cold, dark place?
Chaol stayed close to Yrene, his chin high,
as he announced to the dozen guards aiming
their swords at them that he was Lord Chaol
Westfall, and he wished to see his father.
Immediately.
She’d never heard him use that voice. A
different sort of authority. A lord’s voice.
A lord—and she was a lady, she supposed.
Even if flying had forced her to abandon her
usual dresses in favor of rukhin leathers, even
if she was certain her braided hair had been
whipped in about a dozen directions and
would take hours and a bath to detangle.
They lingered on the battlements in
silence, and Chaol’s gloved hand slid into her
own, the wind ruffling the fur along his heavy
cloak collar. His face revealed nothing but
grim determination, yet the hand he squeezed
around her own ... She knew what this