The first parchment, bearing the Emperor's heavy red wax, was still cooling on the low wooden table in the Archduke's study.
Northern did not look at it. He stood by the high lancet window with his hands tucked loosely into his pockets, watching the western granite rampart. Below, the mountain wind howled through the newly mended stone, kicking up loose snow and brittle pine needles.
Oland had gone down an hour ago to meet the truce flag, and the seneschal had come back with a severe expression and the first lion-sealed recall. Now the heavy, measured tread of armored boots echoed up the main stairwell of the Tempest Spire.
Princess Rehema Nora sat calmly by the hearth. Her resoled boots were planted on the shadow-forged stone, and her long white hair fell over her shoulders in a loose cascade. She watched the doorway without blinking.
