The horn sounded from the canyon rim—two short, rasping notes that echoed between the shale walls like the croak of an iron raven.
Down in the courtyard of the way-station, Malakor stood beside the tongue of the lead treasure wagon, his great sword drawn and planted point-first into the crushed gravel. The morning wind whipped through the breach in the gate, tearing at the dark wool of his cloak, but his stance was unyielding as an anvil.
Aurelia remained in the shadows of the lintel arch, her hands resting loose on the horn hilts of her daggers. The silver light in her eyes flickered beneath the brim of her hood, taking the measure of the company descending the rocky switchback into the trench.
They came in good order—thirty-six heavy horsemen on thick-legged mountain coursers, their tack quieted with grease and wool.
At their head rode a man who looked as though he had been chiseled out of gray granite and dipped in salt. His beard was the color of dirty snow, trimmed close along a jaw marked by an old pike scar that dragged down the left side of his mouth into a permanent scowl.
General Kaelen rode straight to the center of the courtyard, halting his beast five paces from the tip of Malakor's planted blade. The outriders fanned out along the ruined walls, lances resting in the stirrup boots, shields braced. They were lean, hard men who smelled of camp tallow, stale oats, and the bitter dust of the western passes.
"I was told a ghost was rolling through my cut with six teams of imperial mules," Kaelen said, his voice like gravel ground between millstones. His gray eyes swept over the blood-spattered wood of the wagons, then settled upon Malakor’s face. "The Solar Concord claims you were buried under twenty thousand tons of granite at Mount Sorrow, Lord Malakor."
"The Concord claims many things to comfort their priests," Malakor answered, not moving an inch. His amber eyes bore into the old general's with flat, unblinking authority. "They claimed you would starve in the barrens when they stripped your titles and withheld your pay."
Kaelen’s jaw tightened, the pike scar twitching. "Words are cheap in winter. What is in the timber beds?"
Malakor reached down with one hand, unlatched the heavy iron padlock on the rear chest of the nearest wagon with a brutal twist of his fingers, and kicked the lid open.
The morning light hit the contents.
Neat, tightly bound stacks of raw silver bullion gleamed against the dark oak, stamped with the imperial seal of the southern mints. The weight of the metal pressed the wagon's leaf springs down to the axles.
A low, collective murmur ran through the mounted lancers. Men who had not seen coin since the spring thaw leaned forward in their saddles, their knuckles whitening against their reins.
"Four hundred stone of refined silver," Malakor said, his voice carrying clearly to every ear in the courtyard. "Brought from the Oak haven reserves by Captain Thorne himself. He had no further use for it."
Kaelen looked from the silver back to Malakor, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. "You killed Thorne?"
"I broke his neck," Malakor said plainly. "And took his cipher. The Inquisitor is marching the Grand Host south to the Sunken Spire. He believes he has won the north. He left the treasury vaults at Val-Roc with three hundred levies and a garrison of summer boys."
Kaelen swung down from his saddle, his heavy mail clinking as his iron greaves hit the gravel. He walked to the wagon, pulled a heavy ingot from the top layer, and struck it with the pommel of his dagger. The ring was pure, clear, and high.
He turned his head, his sharp gaze suddenly locking onto the figure standing in the shadow of the doorway.
"And who is the girl?" Kaelen asked, nodding toward Aurelia. "A northern thrall?"
Before Kaelen could take another breath, Aurelia stepped into the light.
The silver glyphs on her palms flared to life, casting an eerie, pale luminescence across her dark curls and the pale curve of her cheek. The air in the courtyard plummeted five degrees in a heartbeat, a sharp, metallic tang of ozone and old tombs rushing over the mounted guard.
Malakor stepped forward, his great sword lifting from the earth, the flat of the blade coming to rest with terrifying precision three inches from Kaelen’s throat.
"Choose your next words with great care, Kaelen," Malakor growled, the sovereign fire burning openly in his amber eyes, terrifying and absolute. "You stand before the living tether of the Veil and the future queen of this realm. If you insult her again, I will feed your tongue to the horses before we count the first coin."
Kaelen froze, the ingot heavy in his hand. He looked at the blade at his neck, then at Aurelia's luminous, unyielding eyes, and slowly, the scowl on his scarred face broke into a dry, breathless bark of laughter.
"By the old gods," Kaelen muttered, lowering the silver ingot back into the chest. "You really do mean to burn the whole empire down."