The morning air in the Nevarian highlands did not simply blow; it stung, carrying the scent of pine resin and the promise of a long, arduous week in the saddle.
Soren had barely slept, despite the fact that Eris had spent the night anchored against him, her breathing a soft, rhythmic tide that should have lulled him into a stupor.
Instead, his mind had remained a jagged landscape of calculation. He had watched the moonlight crawl across the floorboards, thinking of Caelen's eyes and the dark residue of the spell that had nearly claimed his wife.
By the time the sun began to bleed a pale, sickly gold over the horizon, Soren was already up. He left a brief, messy note on the nightstand
A small absence for a necessary distraction. I'll see you at the gates and headed for the courtyard.
