The sound of hooves echoed until it ceased completely in the stone courtyard. Guards and servants stopped what they were doing to observe the newly arrived pair—the cold, imposing figure of Ester Deathstriker, and the impossible-looking being at her side, with black wings and a smile that seemed to defy the very chill of the place.
The herald's eyes shifted nervously from one to the other, as if he expected one of them to devour him at any moment.
"Be advised that the Duke demands... discretion in his presence," he said, stumbling slightly over his words. "Please, follow me."
Ester dismounted from her horse with restrained elegance. The dark fabric of her cloak brushed the fine snow on the ground, and she handed the reins to one of the stables without even needing to give an order. Damon, on the other hand, jumped with an almost arrogant lightness, clapping his hands to shake the ice from his cloak.
"Discretion, do you hear that?" "I think he's talking to me."
