The Iron Hearth citadel loomed at the end of the road just as it always did: gray, massive, and making absolutely no effort to appear as anything else. Its narrow windows glowed with warm yellow light. The iron gates were already half-open, and the guards flanking them stood rigidly at attention, pretending not to steal glances at the fresh bandages on Riven's arm.
Rianor halted beneath the gate's lanterns. His legs still half-believed the ground beneath him was swaying like a ship's deck.
He saw the porch first, and only then the person waiting on it.
Elara sat in her wheelchair beneath the porch lights, a thin blanket draped over her knees. Her red hair was tied back loosely, with a few stray strands dancing against her cheek in the night breeze. Her belly was noticeably round beneath her simple wool dress—much larger than the image he had constructed in his mind over the past two months.
