The city of Strathmore was slowly waking from the nightmare of the plague and the war, but the High Cathedral remained a place of hushed, heavy silence.
Carlos rode through the gates, his horse's hooves clattering loudly on the cobblestones. He didn't look like a grieving brother. He looked like a man on a mission of conquest. His new uniform was clean, his posture erect, though his hands still trembled slightly on the reins—a remnant of the fear that had gripped him since the arrow flew.
He stopped in front of the priest's private quarters. He dismounted, tossing the reins to a waiting groom without a word. He walked toward the door.
He stopped.
The guards standing outside the door were different.
When Derek had arrested Adams, he had left Elite Shadows—men in black, silent and deadly. These men were different. They wore the colors of the local garrison, but their armor was polished, their stance rigid. They were Royal Guards.
