The next morning came sharp and cold.
Mist rolled off the lake like a silver curtain as the knights prepared our caravan. I had just finished tying back my hair when Norma’s voice echoed across camp.
“My lady!” she hissed from behind the supply wagon, eyes wide. “Trouble incoming. Fancy trouble.”
I barely had time to turn before I saw her.
A glittering entourage.
Silk banners. Golden wheels. A carriage so polished I could see my own vaguely irritated reflection in the panels. At the front of it, on a pure white horse, was a woman straight out of a royal painting.
Tall. Pale. Hair coiled in perfect curls the color of spun gold.
Her dress—a layered thing of icy blue silk and white embroidery—was far too clean for someone claiming to be traveling near rift-infested territory. And behin
