The heavy leather curtain at the entrance of the smuggler’s den was thrown back violently, letting in a swirl of biting snow and freezing wind.
Corren stomped into the cavern, shaking the thick layer of white from his heavy furs. He looked exhausted, his beard crusted with ice, but his eyes were burning with urgent, nervous energy.
"I made contact," Corren announced, his gruff voice cutting through the low murmur of the cavern.
Silra, who had been resting by the fire, immediately stood up. Kessa and Riven were already moving toward the center crate, unfolding the battered map.
"You took a massive risk, Corren," Riven scolded, crossing his arms. "Word on the scout frequencies is that you marched right up to the northern checkpoint and demanded a royal audience. Are you trying to get you
