Their civilian disguises were torn, covered in mud, soot, and the blood of the mercenaries they had undoubtedly slaughtered to find the entrance.
They charged into the hall, weapons drawn, their eyes wild with desperate, suicidal panic, fully expecting to find a massacre.
Instead, they saw the frozen gold.
They saw the cage.
And they saw their Archduke sitting on the floor, holding the tiny, safe, crimson-clad little Sovereign in his arms.
Sir Boris dropped his war hammer.
It hit the stone floor with a deafening CLANG as the giant of the North fell to his knees.
Burying his scarred face in his hands, his broad shoulders shaking with loud, unashamed, racking sobs of pure relief.
"She is alive," Boris wept loudly, rocking back and forth. "By the Light, she is alive. I thought... I thought my empty arms would be my grave."
