Through it all, the shard remained cold against Soren's chest, Valenna unusually silent as she observed. He felt her presence sharpening, assessing, calculating the changed landscape they now faced.
Within the hour, messengers departed from each noble house, racing toward distant estates with sealed letters. The lords might have returned in shared defeat, but their political maneuvering had already begun. Blame would be assigned. Alliances would shift. Power would change hands.
Soren made his way to the bathhouse first, desperate to wash away the grime of travel and the stench of fear that seemed to have seeped into his very skin. The hot water stung countless small cuts he hadn't noticed receiving, turning the bath cloudy with dirt and dried blood.
As he dressed in clean clothes, a servant appeared at the doorway. "Lord Ashgard awaits," the man said, his expression carefully neutral. "The lords have gathered in the great hall."
