The Citadel of Thorns had never felt so cold. Its black towers clawed at the winter sky, banners snapping like whips in the icy wind. Yet inside the throne hall, it was not the chill of stone that bit deep, but the weight of failure.
The court had gathered in uneasy silence. Nobles in silks and furs lined the walls, their jeweled fingers twitching, their eyes shifting like nervous birds. Guards in iron stood grimly at attention. The air reeked of smoke from braziers and the faint tang of fear.
At the center, sprawled upon his throne of iron, sat King Malrik. His crown gleamed in the torchlight, but his face was carved in shadow. In his hands he held Garrick’s broken sword, brought back by fleeing soldiers as proof of their commander’s death.
The king’s knuckles whitened on the hilt.
“S
