The morning after the battle dawned cold and grey.
Elizabeth stood atop Greywatch’s battered wall, the wind tugging at her cloak. She looked down at the courtyard where healers moved among the wounded, where pyres had been built for the fallen. Smoke curled into the heavy sky, carrying the scent of burning wood and bittersweet mourning.
The Crown of Echoes had been locked away deep within Ironholt’s vaults triple-sealed with wards Elizabeth had personally carved into the stone. She could still feel its presence, like a splinter lodged in her mind.
Use me, it had whispered.
Not again, she vowed.
Never again.
Footsteps crunched behind her.
Cedric approached his arm in a sling but otherwise stubbornly upright.
"You should rest," he said.
Elizabeth shook her head. "I can't. Not yet."
