The trembling finger of Master Corin remained pointed toward the shadowed gallery above, where the silver-armored figure of the Lost Eastern Legions stood watching in chilling silence.
A suffocating hush descended over the Great Feast Hall.
The weeping steward stayed pressed flat against the marble stairs, his navy-blue livery stained with sour sweat and dirt. Beside him, the turquoise foam continued to sizzle quietly against his poisoned knuckles, filling the cold air with the bitter stench of scorched copper.
Elder Morzan saw his opening.
Desperate to turn the tide of suspicion away from his own ruined name, the old member of council dragged himself up by the edge of the high table. His black bear-fur mantle hung crooked over his stooped shoulders, his charcoal velvet robes trailing
