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black horsehair still shining despite its age.
Not to signify the royals within, a marker of
their Darghan heritage, but to represent the
man they served. Ivory horsehair for times of
peace; the Ebony for times of war.
He hadn’t realized the khagan had given
his Heir the Ebony to bring to these lands.
At Chaol’s side, her dress blood-splattered
but eyes clear, Yrene also halted. They’d
traveled for weeks with the army, yet seeing
the sign of their commitment to this war
radiating the centuries of conquest it had
overseen ... It seemed almost holy, that sulde.
It was holy.
Chaol put a hand on Yrene’s back, guiding
her through the tent flaps and into the ornately
decorated space. For a woman who had
arrived at Anielle not a moment too late, only
Hasar would somehow have managed to get
her royal tent erected during battle.