Dragonspire had never felt so quiet. The fortress was usually filled with movement, with servants carrying messages through the corridors, soldiers changing shifts, dragons calling from the cliffs, and nobles arguing over matters of state, but tonight the sounds had changed.
The corridors smelled of blood and smoke. Wounded soldiers filled the infirmary, healers worked without stopping and exhausted servants carried fresh water from room to room while the names of those who had died at the Silver Gate were quietly recorded.
I stood near the infirmary doorway and watched a healer wrap another soldier's arm.
His face was pale and his breathing was shallow, yet he tried to smile when the healer told him he would recover.
I couldn't stop thinking about the battlefield. The Ashborn. The gat
