Two days later, the scent of rain hung heavy in the air, a damp promise that clung to the stones of Eldwynn Keep. Aragon was in the armory, running a whetstone along the edge of his greatsword, the rhythmic shhhk-shhhk echoing in the vaulted space. The steel sang under his touch, a low, hungry note. His mind was leagues away—in the frozen passes of the Northern Enclave, on the shadowed forms of the Arakenys, on the cold calculation in his grandmother's eyes.
The door creaked open, a sliver of gray daylight cutting across the floor. He didn't look up until he heard the soft, hesitant intake of breath.
