The rider came up the southern road two days early.
Aria spotted him from the wall.
She’d been standing on the eastern parapet at dusk for hours, watching that road until her eyes ached. Vael had stopped trying to coax her down. Senna had stopped bringing tea. Somewhere in the last three days they’d both quietly decided that the queen would stand where she wanted, and they’d simply stand close.
The rider was Cale.
Alone. His horse was lathered and blowing hard. He still wore the dark leathers from when he’d left, though road dust had turned them grey, and the scar along his jaw looked white against the sunburn on his face.
He was alive.
That was the first thing she let herself register. Alive, riding, nothing tied to his saddle that looked like a body.
The second thing she noticed w
