"Ah, wait! I thought you meant later, your Majesty! We're still a distance from Ernest yet. Will you not wait until we've ridden closer?" Verdant said, shouting after him, but Oliver was already rushing through the snow, like a wolf that had finally caught the scent of worthy flesh, after so many months spent in hunger.
He raced, straight into the falling snow, towards the Black Mountains, threading his way inbetween Ernest and Solgrim, feeling freer than he had in the longest time. The wind rushed in his air. Strong now. It had been strong all week, chilling them, as if it were their enemy. Now that wind, as Oliver raced faster, and he grew warmer, was his firmest of friends. Gratitude in his heart, for the retainers that he could leave matters to. Knowing himself to be walking a tightrope in his own mind. Barely held together. Something barely suppressed.
