The fever broke exactly when the blizzard did.
Elian woke up feeling hollowed out, weak, and sticky with sweat, but the crushing weight of the Northern Ague had lifted. The world was no longer spinning, and his throat no longer felt like shattered glass.
He opened his eyes.
The furs had been pulled back slightly to let him cool down. Cassian was not in the bed.
The Prince stood by the entrance of the tent, fully armored in dark steel. General Marcus was beside him, pointing at a map illuminated by the pale, weak light of the morning sun filtering through the canvas.
"The snow has stopped, Sire," Marcus was saying, his voice a grim rumble. "Rowena's infantry is advancing. They are forming a shield wall at the mouth of the gorge. The Iron Phalanx."
