★AZRAEL★
We left at dawn. The sky was still grey, the sun not yet risen above the tree line, and the air carried the sharp cold of early winter. I rode in front, Noah behind me, Grandmother Isolde in a carriage she had insisted upon despite the roughness of the road. She claimed her old bones could not manage a horse anymore. I suspected she simply preferred the comfort.
She talked for the first hour. About the weather, about the pack, about my wife and how well she was settling into her role. I answered in monosyllables until she fell silent, understanding finally that I was not in the mood for conversation.
"You're frightened," she said eventually.
I did not turn. "I'm not frightened."
"You've been married six times, Azrael. You've faced rogues and elders and your own father. But you've never been frightened. Not like this." She paused. "The Prophet cannot harm you. She can only speak truth."
"Truth can harm," I said.
