Arlo
I stood just past the stone archway of the Western Wing, my thumb tracing the silver-and-navy ribbon of the scroll tucked inside my coat. Down the corridor, frantic footsteps, shouting guards, Gunnar's booming commands, a symphony I'd been waiting days to conduct.
Elian had done his part beautifully, handing the scroll over with the pathetic, hopeful look of a man who thought I'd actually share a crown, or a girl, with a court mage. From there, the rest had been simple: contacts in the Eastern Reaches, a few coins, a whispered route, and King Malakor's men did the rest, right on schedule.
My alibi held. A borrowed cloak on a paid double, riding hard for the southern gate while I rode nowhere at all.
Now for the part that actually mattered.
Stripping my brother of a tactical victo
