She’d been cold before.
She’d be cold again, flying out of here.
Daorah wore warrior blacks, sword at her side clacking against her leg, and she wondered when the scabbard had started to come loose. She made a note to call on Torvan Daar, their brilliant smith, to get it fixed. He’d established himself as a man with a knack for simple and enduring remedies to problems that other smiths would dismiss as impossible.
She smiled to herself. She wondered what Torvan Daar might say about the plan she was about to propose to the king. It was, after all, his type of solution: simple, effective, permanent.
She wondered, too, what Torvan might say about her plan to talk to the king, because now she found herself standing in the doorway to the audience chamber, face to face with two knights of th
