a loved one.
His fault, his burden. His choices had led
them here. His choices had left so many
bodies in the snow, a veritable path of them
from the southern border, all the way to the
Florine.
The white castle loomed, larger with every
hill they ascended. At least they had that—the
advantage of higher ground.
At least they had that.
Darrow and the other lords were waiting.
Not in the throne room, but in the spacious
council chamber on the other side of the
palace.
The last time Aedion had been in the room,
a preening Adarlanian prick had presided over
the meeting. The Viceroy of Terrasen, he’d
called himself.
It seemed the man had taken his finery,