The royal courier left at first light, his palfrey exchanged for a hardier northern garron, his expression was one of sullen, chilled relief to be departing. He carried no written reply, only the memory of the Watch's pervasive silence and the Duke's final, wordless stare—a message far clearer than any parchment.
His departure seemed to be a signal. Within the hour, Kaelen gave the order. We were leaving Sentinel's Watch. Today. Now.
There was no discussion, no council. The command was issued in the yard, his voice cutting through the morning mist. "We ride for Frostcrest. Prepare to move. Travel light. We make the foothills by nightfall."
The foothills. That meant bypassing two smaller waystations, covering in one grueling push a distance that had taken us two days to ascend. It was not a journey; it was a forced march.
