A Marriage of Swords
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“This is impossible.”
“So was the Whisper Cut,” he murmured. “So was the Serpent’s Maw. We specialize in impossible.”
From the courtyard far below, a horn blew—a long, low note that echoed off the cliffs. A scout’s signal.
They pulled apart, the moment receding but not breaking. The world, with its perils and politics, was calling.
“The first of the lords’ parties has been sighted,” Leigh said, her warrior’s mask settling back into place, but her eyes remained soft, holding his. “Gryffen’s colors are among them.”