The cold in the Northern Reaches did not merely hunting spear. He was barely sixteen, his breath coming in ragged, terrified plumes.
"Twelve," Vaelen replied, his voice barely louder than the howling wind. "Ten foot-soldiers wearing the mark of the Iron Sun. One commander in plate armor. And one..." He paused, narrowing his eyes as he spotted the figure standing near the village well. "...one Weaver."
Kael swallowed hard. "A Weaver? Here? In a border village?"
"They aren't looking for grain or silver, Kael," Vaelen said grimly, adjusting the leather straps of the broadsword strapped to his back. "They're hunting."
