The heavy spyglass clicked as Harrick adjusted the focus, the brass cold against his cheek. Far below the ridge, the frost-choked road out of Frostmere was a dark ribbon cut into the white.
He watched the procession, the rhythmic trot of armored destriers, the fluttering pennants of the West. He didn't need to see the face of the man inside the lead carriage to know who it was. The sigil of the mountain lion on the black banner confirmed everything.
Duke Konstantin was moving south. The iron-fisted ruler of the Northern Reaches was officially gone, lured toward the capital by the promise of justice.
Harrick lowered the glass. His breath hitched in a cloud of silver vapor. For twenty years, he had been a simple salt merchant, a man of ledgers and brine, but today he was the finger that would pull the trigger of a continental crossbow. He turned and walked into the shadows of his storehouse, where the air tasted of ancient sea-salt and damp stone.
