“Keep the line crooked. Kings hate untidy pictures.”
General Kael rode with the easy grace of a man who had never been told no by a mirror. His horse was a gray gelding with a scar down the flank and manners better than his rider’s. Kael wore armor that had never seen a pageant, dull steel, practical buckles, no flourish, but over it he had thrown a cloak of wolf-fur dyed a tasteful night. On his head no crown, only a band of black leather set with a small iron sigil: a crescent cracked in two.
He smiled when the road bent and showed him the distant dark seam of the Citadel’s wall. It was not an affectionate smile. It was the smile of a butcher looking at a full market.
“Report,” he said without turning.
A runner took the slope at a respectful half-trot. The man had the long, hard look
