HIS REJECTED GODDESS
The freezing, biting wind of the high peaks rushed in, carrying the faint, metallic scent of snow and ancient magic.
Standing on the platform, waiting for the train, was Elias.
The forty-two-year-old sovereign wore no armor. He wore the simple gray wool of his office, the silver band blazing around his forehead. He looked at the locomotive, his golden eyes finding mine through the open door.
"Welcome home, Grandmaster," Elias transmitted, his psychic voice carrying the heavy, unyielding weight of the mountain itself. "Let us finish the Forge."
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