The Astraia border was a desolate expanse of twisted pines and jagged limestone ridges that seemed to tear at the very hem of the grey sky. Mist clung to the valley floor like a burial shroud, thick with the scent of damp earth and the resinous tang of crushed needles. In the deep shadows of a ravine overlooking the main trade artery into the neighboring kingdom, Constantine remained perfectly still. He was crouched behind a screen of low-hanging branches, his dark traveling cloak blending seamlessly into the charcoal gloom of the pre-dawn hour. The silence was absolute, save for the occasional, distant call of a night bird and the rhythmic drip of condensation from the trees. This was no longer the controlled environment of the training camp or the gilded cage of the palace. This was the
