Evren
The first time I heard the Song of Frost, I was a boy small enough to fit on my father’s shoulders.
Back then, the sound had felt like a promise: nothing can touch you while we stand here.
Now, I know better.
I stood in the second entrance to the Song Hall, half in shadow, arms folded. The choir formed a wide arc in the center of the room, candles on stands glowing around them. Their voices braided together, low and sharp and aching.
And in the curve of that circle, near the wall with Maera, stood Timber.
I had not intended to find her here. I had come to listen, yes, but from a distance. To measure where the harmony faltered, where the grief caught in their throats and threatened to turn into numbness. That is the king’s task.
But my attention slid to her and stayed there.
H
