Three years in the Northwest had a way of hardening everything it touched. The frost on the windows was thicker, the stone of the castle felt more ancient, and the boy who had once arrived in the snow, broken and pregnant, was now nothing short but a ghost of a memory.
In his place stood a man of silver and steel.
But even a warrior has to sleep.
The morning light struggled to pierce the heavy, charcoal-colored curtains of Zaliyah's chambers.
He lay still, his long silver hair spread across the pillows like a frozen river.
His breathing was shallow, his mind finally at peace-until the air in the room began to hum.
A small, ripple appeared near the foot of his bed. From the distortion stepped a girl who looked no younger than five, though her birth certificate would have told a much shorter tale.
Sylaris was a vision of her father: Silver-white hair tied in a messy twin tails and eyes the color of the blue sky.
