The heavy iron door of the carriage hung off its splintered hinges, swaying uselessly in the howling mountain wind. Outside, the fog was thick, choked with the smell of burning pine and the metallic tang of fresh blood.
Duke Ephraim stepped closer to the ruined frame, the white-and-gold silk of his high-prosecutor armor gleaming under the harsh light of the torches held by his twelve shadow-knights. He adjusted his leather gloves, a cold, self-righteous smirk pulling at his thin lips as his gaze locked onto me, trembling slightly on the velvet floorboards behind Draven's massive frame.
"A magnificent catch," Ephraim drawled, his voice smooth, cultured, and thoroughly repulsive. "The traitorous Duke of Vael'ethor, caught red-handed operating an illegal contraband ring... and harboring the Central Realm's primary fugitive. High King Malakor will be thoroughly pleased when I present your severed heads on silver platters at the autumn summit."
