Dawn came slow and iron-grey, dragging the night off the pines in torn strips. Bells tolled once, twice, thrice from the pack house tower—a measured summons, not alarm—and the courtyard below my balcony filled with breath turning to fog, with leather and steel, with riders whose banners I did not yet know.
Rourke stood at my shoulder like a quiet wall. “Varian,” he said, nodding toward the tallest standard: black silk stitched with a white antlered crest. “Neutral on paper. In practice, he smiles at both sides until the wind picks a favorite.”
Mireya joined us without a sound, crimson cloak thrown over one shoulder. “He brings witnesses,” she murmured, eyes following a smaller banner—river-blue, threaded silver. “Of course he does.”
“Witnesses to what?” I asked.
“To you,” she said. “To
