The heavy wooden wheels of the carriage groaned as they churned through the sludgy snow, leaving the jagged white peaks of the North behind. Inside the cramped cabin, the silence was suffocating. Malaki rode ahead on his warhorse, his tall silhouette visible through the frosted glass, watching our carriage like a hawk through the rearview mirror of the freezing wilderness. Grace sat opposite us, her head resting against the frame, fast asleep, wrapped tightly in Malaki's heavy fur coat.
I leaned across the velvet cushion, my voice dropping into a razor-thin whisper that barely carried over the rattling timber. "Malaki knows."
The imposter didn't even blink. He kept his golden eyes fixed on the barren landscape outside, his hands resting motionless on his knees. "He knows nothing."
