The gates of Frosthold opened on the eighth day, and Runa rode through them like a ghost from a nightmare.
Her horse was lathered, its flanks heaving, its eyes wild with exhaustion. Runa herself was barely recognizable, her face pale beneath a mask of frost and grime, her leathers torn, her arm bound in a makeshift sling. But it was her eyes that struck me most. They were not the eyes of the warrior I had fought beside, not the eyes of the woman who had trained me, who had laughed with me, who had woven gold into a warrior's braid for my hair.
They were the eyes of someone who had seen something she could not unsee.
I ran to her as she dismounted, catching her as she stumbled. She leaned on me, her weight heavy, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Runa. What happened?"
She shook her head, her jaw tight. "Not here. The council. I need to speak to the council."
