Two days of restless preparation had turned the castle into a hive of industry, but Aragon's mind often wandered back to the scent of Kaitlyna—or Katelyn, as she had always insisted on being called in formal circles, though he had ruined her formality along with her cunt. The memory of her surrender was a persistent itch, one he hadn't had the leisure to scratch since Beltar's return and the frantic mobilization for the Northern Enclave.
The summons came in the late afternoon, delivered by a breathless page boy. Lady Katelyn requested a private audience in the old glass garden, a place of rotting vines and shattered panes where few dared to tread. Aragon dismissed his guards, curiosity piqued. He found her pacing among the dry husks of rosebushes, the late sun filtering through the grime to paint her in hues of rust and gold.
