High in the infirmary wing, in a solar that served as his gilded prison, Crown Prince Cassian stood at the arched window. He had dismissed his physicians and attendants hours ago, commanding silence and solitude. The trembling in his hands was less pronounced this morning, suppressed by a potent tincture and a far more potent emotion: a rage so cold it burned without flame.
Below, in the sweeping courtyard that appeared like a toy model from this height, his nightmare was taking shape.
The Northern contingent was a blot of purposeful darkness on the Academy's pale stone. From his vantage, they looked like ants, but ants armed with steel and a chilling, unified purpose. He could pick out Kaelen Frost easily—a broader, darker shape at the head of the column, a stillness that commanded the chaos around him. The sight of the Northern Duke here, in the heart of the Empire's seat of learning, was an affront. He was a storm cloud parked in a formal garden.
