Aidan.
The cold wind whipped down the river pass, smelling of wet earth, iron, and impending blood.
I sat tall in the saddle at the front of our column, my hand resting heavily on the broadsword at my hip. Besieged by thick morning fog, the river boundary stretched out before us. To my right, Davian sat on his war horse, looking completely relaxed, though the vein pulsing along his jaw told me he was ready to snap someone's neck.
Between us sat Daniel, bound tightly to his mount, his hands tied behind his back and his face bruised and pale as chalk.
A heavy clanking of steel echoed from the pine trees across the river. A dozen heavily armored Lycan guards stepped into the shallow water, led by Alaric—Vincent's chief general. His dark cape dragged in the mud, his hand resting on the hilt of his weapon as his sharp eyes scanned our line.
