Some warriors charge into battle with strategy and discipline. We charge in with sarcasm, unresolved trauma, and one vaguely responsible adult.
The moon was high. Too high. Too bright, like someone had scooped a silver plate into the sky and polished it until it glared. That kind of light flatters no one; it makes fools think of themselves as invincible and assassins think their hands are steady. Perfect time to be stupid, and I stood over the war table in the East Wing strategy chamber, maps and weaponry spread like an offering to bad ideas. Ink-stained lines crisscrossed maps and documents.
Rell was to my left, hunched over his twin daggers, sharpening them with too much glee; his grin earned itself a nickname I would rather not speak aloud. Gavriel leaned in the window alcove, one boot braced against the sill, spinning a spear with the kind of practiced boredom that means he is already tasting the strike, and I could feel the cold of his humor at my back.
