The torches in the valley looked like a river of molten lava winding its way up the throat of the Black Ridge. From the high window of Silas’s chambers, the sight was beautiful in a way that made my stomach churn. Each flickering flame represented a life sworn to my destruction.
"They won't reach the gates tonight," Silas’s voice rumbled behind me.
He didn't sound like he was offering comfort; he sounded like a general counting his soldiers. I turned to see him standing by the hearth, the orange light casting jagged shadows across his scarred chest. He had washed the blood from his skin, but the metallic, primal scent of it still clung to the air.
"How many?" I asked, my voice small.
"Hundreds. Maybe a thousand," Silas replied, his eyes fixed on the fire. "The Inquisition has spent cen
