The gates of Sorgos swung wide open.
Elias stood at the top of the palace steps, the cold winter air biting at the skin of his throat.
He had spent the last hour convincing himself to remain still, to embody the "Anchor" that the Council had come to respect—the immovable point of stability.
But as the lead rider crossed the inner courtyard, the carefully constructed composure Elias built began to fail.
Cassian dismounted before the horse had even fully settled.
His helmet was already off, tucked under one arm. His hair, longer and messier than when he had left, was wind-burned and matted with the grit of the road.
He scanned the courtyard first.
It was an instinctive assessment of the space. He looked at the guard placement, the positioning of the generals. He looked at the distance between the High Lords. He was calculating the room before he lived in it.
