"Loyalty is not inherited from the dead; it is sworn anew to the living who hold the crown."
The wind cut sharply against my skin as we rode out with the royal guards, Gavriel and Rell at my flanks. The air was heavy, too heavy. Not just with the bite of winter, but with the pull of blood still fresh in memory. Torvik was dead, and though Alaric had broken his neck in righteous fury, the echoes of that death still rattled the Northern Kingdom.
And today, those echoes had faces, and we found them in the valley clearing beyond the old barracks, the Silver Fang Assassins, the remnants of Torvik's iron hand. They stood in a rough half-circle, blades drawn but not raised, their silver masks catching the muted light of the sky.
