Midday light fell in long bars across the hall's stone, dust turning in it like slow snow. Adolf had cleared the side aisles and posted two guards outside with orders to admit no one. A single table stood beneath the banners; on it, a pitcher of water, three cups, and the ledgers Morena had marked the night before.
The captain arrived on the dot, boots thudding a steady rhythm down the hall. He was older than she'd pictured when she was younger, younger than she'd felt he must be last night—broad through the shoulders, gray at the temples, eyes the pale kind that missed very little.
Captain Rorik, tall, broad-shouldered, his cuirass polished but scarred, a cloak of deep gray thrown across one arm. His eyes followed her movements.
He bowed to her and to Adolf, then straightened, posture neat without being stiff.
"Captain."
