They came to the Cairn of First Night on the night of the second moon.
Star and Elandor rode at the head of a small, grim company: Duchess Calera, Lila (now wearing scout leathers instead of a maid's dress), a dozen of the king's best, and Advisor Thorne, mask gleaming like a second moon. The standing stones rose out of the mist like the ribs of some dead god, green fire flickering between them.
The woman with silver hair waited in the center, barefoot, smiling like a mother welcoming children home.
But she was not alone.
A man stepped from the shadows beside her.
Tall. Older than mountains, younger than dawn. Skin pale as moonlight on bone, hair the color of spilled ink that moved even when the wind did not. Eyes like twin voids that had forgotten how to hold light. He wore robes of deep indigo stitched with constellations that slowly shifted when no one was looking directly at them.
He carried no weapon.
He did not need one.
