The eastern provinces settled into an uneasy peace.
Corvin's body had been burned, his ashes scattered in the mountains where he had been born. His followers had scattered—some surrendering, some fleeing, some melting back into the villages they had come from. The eastern stronghold was quiet, but the quiet was not peace. It was the silence before a storm; the breath held before the next blow.
Elowen walked the ramparts each morning, watching her soldiers drill. Corvin's rebellion had given her the justification she needed. More troops. More supplies. More authority. The eastern forces had grown by thirty percent, and she had positioned them at every major crossroads, every trade route, every border crossing. Her banners flew from every watchtower. Her name was spoken in every village.
She was consolidating her power.
And the triplets were watching.
"They're worried about you," Seren said.
