A man stepped out of the sunlight and into the hall. He was tall, slim, and perhaps even more handsome than the Wizard Ash. He had perfect features, eyes brighter than flame, skin the color of dawn’s light, and hair that flowed like liquid gold. He was clad in leather armor with gold plates on his chest and back.
Quivers rested at both his right and left hip, the arrows within them secured so tightly that they didn’t even sway as he walked. A long, broad dagger protruded from the belt at his waist. He held a bow and approached Lathea without sparing even a glance at Helmer or Hadjar. He knelt beside her and ran his hands through her hair, then, very tenderly, as if he were handling a porcelain vase, he helped her lie down.
“You...” the warrior’s bloodied lips whispered. “I think... I rem
