At dawn, the courtyard stilled itself, every wall, window, and flagstone slab leaching the last night's rain into a uniform chill that had the effect of glassing over the world. Even the birds, for whom time was currency, only chirped in brief, uncertain snippets.
Soren stood in the third row from the front, boots slick and eyes dry, the pre-briefing cold clamped around his calves like a manacle. Each breath condensed and vanished before it could be admitted as evidence.
Dane stood in armor, top half only, hair left unbound so that in the dead gray of early light it made him look less like a Swordmaster and more like someone who'd woken from a worse dream than anyone else assembled.
