Valka
He looks different.
Standing in the centre of a vast chamber, back hunched over a table wrecked in half with pieces of a shredded map and broken figurine, Prince--No. The King of Silvermoor sighs. "Have you come to torment me again, Val?"
My throat tightens. For a moment something stupid and dangerous stirs inside me. The memory of his mouth against mine. I hate myself for that memory, for still feeling a punch in my gut whenever I look at him.
Rafe raises his gaze and fixes them directly to where I stand. His stormy gray eyes are bruised underneath from lack of sleep and there is a thick beard growing under his chin. A crown rests on his hair of burnished copper, overgrown now falls down to his chin.
