The dark velvet-lined carriage swayed, a morbid cradle rocking Nyrielle deeper into uncertainty. Her pale hands, usually so composed, were clenched tightly in her lap, knuckles white. The groan of the wheels over uneven ground was a dirge, and the scent of brine, thick and acrid, permeated the air. They were nearing the coast. No one had told her where they were going. No one ever told her anything.
She pulled back the heavy curtain, a sliver of desperation guiding her fingers. The breath left her lungs in a sharp gasp.
Countless camps. They littered the cliffs above the churning sea, an army encampment stretching as far as her eye could see in the fading twilight. Banners whipped in the wind, unfamiliar symbols she'd never seen. Soldiers moved with an unnerving, organized silence. None wore the proud black and silver of House Kaerethyne. None bore the fiery red of her own father's command.
