The final afternoon sun slanted through the bare windows of my quarters, painting long, cold rectangles on the floor. The eerie quiet of my completed goodbyes was broken by a firm, rhythmic knock. Not the timid tap of a servant, but the confident rap of someone used to being answered.
I opened the door to find a man who could only be Sir Damien Ashford. He was tall, though not with Kaelen's monolithic breadth, and built with the lean, corded strength of a seasoned cavalryman. His hair was the color of weathered straw, tied back at the nape, and his face was tanned and lined from a lifetime spent outdoors, not in a court. He wore the dark, practical leathers and fur-trimmed surcoat of a Northern knight, but unlike the stone-faced guards, a faint, easygoing smile hovered around his eyes as he offered a crisp bow.
