Richard
The banner resolved out of the torchlight as the force drew closer — a pale ash-gray wolf's head circled by seven stars, stitched onto black cloth that carried the particular weight of something old rather than newly claimed. Richard had never seen it before in his life, and the uneasy silence rippling through the assembled Vasquez fighters told him none of them had either.
Except Alaric.
Richard turned at the sharp, indrawn breath beside him and found his father staring at the approaching banner with an expression that had nothing to do with confusion and everything to do with dread.
"You know them," Richard said.
"I hoped never to see that banner raised again in my lifetime." Alaric's voice had gone tight, older suddenly, the confidence he'd carried since walking out of the
