Latio's finger remained frozen, pointed into the swirling grey void. Both Ser Cleo and his nephew followed the line of his hand, their breath hitching in unison to what they beheld.
At first, there was nothing but the shifting veil of the mist. Then, a shape began to congeal, a ghost formed from the damp air.
As the figure drew closer, the whispers among the stranded knights died out, replaced by a hollow realization.
He was not one of theirs.
The stranger sat atop a stallion of such bone-white purity that it seemed even paler than the fog. The rider was a statue of iron and shadow, but it was only when a stray breeze thinned the mist that Latio's heart truly turned to ice. Across the rider's shoulders lay a heavy pelt, the signature of the elite, the killers who flanked the Peasant Prince.
Rumored by more than one to be his favorite.
