Corin
After breakfast, which Mason watched almost until the very last bite, something unusual was brought into the room. It was a heavy wheelchair made of dark wood, lined with soft furs.
“Your legs cannot handle such a long walk yet,” Mason said in a tone that allowed no argument. “But you need fresh air. These walls will slowly turn into a prison.”
He carefully lifted me from the bed into the chair. His movements were still as gentle as if he were moving a fragile glass statue, yet I could feel the steady calm strength radiating from him. Over my white shirt he placed a thick wool cloak, then we set off.
The Brown Stone stronghold was impressive even from the inside. High arches stretched overhead, torches lined the stone walls, and raw power seemed to live in every block of rock. As
