The balcony that Ashlynn led Liam to jutted from the tower's side like an eagle's perch, high enough above the ground that the wind tugged insistently at the white lace spilling from Liam's cuffs and made him grateful for the heavy wool of his maroon tunic beneath all the fashionable embroidery.
The tailors in Keating had laughed at him when he brought them such a heavy fabric to work with, but then, they'd never endured the rough winters in the foothills of the mountains, or attended feasts in the humble, and often drafty, manors of frontier knights. But in the end, even though they'd laughed, they'd been more than willing to take his gold in order to elevate the humble wool of his home barony into a garment that wouldn't look out of place at the feasts or festivals of Keating City.
Below them, the ancient fortress spread out in layers of stone and activity, though the patchy fog that clung to the valley obscured almost as much as it revealed.
