The Crown of Borrowed Light
The great hall of Aldermere Castle had been built for winter light, its tall windows angled to catch the pale sun as it crawled across stone floors worn smooth by three centuries of ambitious feet. Today the light came thin and grudging, filtered through clouds the color of old bruises, and it did nothing to soften the mood gathered beneath the vaulted ceiling.
Elara sat upon the high seat, her spine straight as the ceremonial sword laid across her lap, and tried not to think about the way her blood felt too warm beneath her skin.
"Three scouting parties, Your Majesty." Lord Halric's voice carried the particular rasp of a man who enjoyed being the bearer of bad tidings. He stood at the center of the long table, both palms pressed flat against its dark wood as though he might otherwise be swept away by his own indignation. "Vanished. Not a trace of blood, not a broken blade, nothing but frost where men once stood. And you ask me to believe this is merely a matter of weather?"
"I asked no such thing, Lord Halric." Elara kept her tone even, though the effort of it pulled at something deep in her chest. "I asked you to bring me facts rather than fears dressed as facts. There is a…
