The envoy from Oakhaven did not look like a man expecting a fight. He looked like a man arriving to collect the garbage.
He rode a heavy destrier through the falling snow, flanked by two standard-bearers holding the green and gold banners of Princess Rowena's house. He wore thick, luxurious furs over polished plate armor, his breath pluming in the freezing air.
Elian stood just outside the command tent, the Warlord's Mantle wrapped tightly around his shoulders. Cassian stood beside him, hands resting casually on the pommel of his sword.
"General Voss," Cassian murmured, recognizing the man from his days at the Capital. "Rowena's right hand. A brutal tactician, but lacking in imagination."
General Voss pulled his horse to a halt at the edge of the Northern trench line. He looked down his nose, expecting to see huddled, blue-lipped conscripts ready to beg for mercy.
