I saw the Paragon the moment we stepped from the tower onto the ramparts. He was unmistakable. A powerful presence charged the ramparts, and an aura of majesty surrounded his figure.
Though no taller than the men around him, Paragon Killian seemed to stand leagues above their heads. Antlers rose from his silver helm, and a rich purple cape billowed behind him in the breeze.
I'd never seen such beautiful armor. Detailed etchings painted Aenir's crest across his chestplate: great antlers wrapped around a soaring hawk. He watched the distance, stalwart, his sword planted at his feet.
Cierthine, the legendary Paragon weapon that belonged to Aenir. A black blade pulsing with violet lightning.
Paragon Killian's gaze snapped in my direction. Lifting his blade, he strode toward me.
"Paragon Killian," I said, barely concealing my awe. "King Ailithir sent me with a message."
His eyes flicked over my face. "Lady Rohan, I presume?"
"You recognize me?"
"Your eyes," he said. "I've heard about them. Come." Turning on his heel, he strode away.
I touched my face. People spoke of my eye color?
Dark, murky purple, unlike any shade I'd seen on another Stormborn. I'd always hated them. Our people loved gossip—they must have mocked my eyes behind my back.
Hurrying to catch up with the Paragon, I trailed behind him. "King Ailithir has heard your message and sent word to the other forts, as requested."
"But he did not send an army." Killian glanced back at me.
"No. He did not think?—"
The Paragon stopped abruptly. "I've been watching the south for a while. Something's changed. A few days ago . . . " He trailedoff, staring into the depths of darkness beyond the walls. "Thatappeared."
Taking my shoulder, he turned me to face the Shadowlands.
I'd never seen Ceortha in person before, only heard stories. Bards spoke of an oppressive pall no man could see through. Shivers of wrongness would trace through your spine, they claimed, and the shadows would seep through your skin, leaving palpable scars.
Still. Dead. Silent. Save for the howling of distant beasts.
The tales proved true. Ice danced down my spine, like cold fingers caressing my skin. The cloud I'd glimpsed from the road did not merely obscure the sky; it reached toward the ground, layering the very world in its haze.
But something more was there: the ghosts of a whisper, barely heard. I closed my eyes, trying to hear the voice, but it eluded me.
Snapping my eyes open, I saw what Killian wanted me to see. Movement. Shapes drifted through the fog, at the edge of my vision, like fish churning the ocean or deer parting the underbrush.
Startled, I stepped back. "Monsters?" I asked.
"I don't know," Killian said, staring into the distance. "I've ridden as far as sanity and holy doctrine allow. A shardwolf or two, the stray wyvern? All normal. But this . . . " He nodded for me to watch.
The movement didn't stop. If I gazed long enough, it almost seemed like the fog took the shape of a marching army. Or maybe it was the tail of a dragon of unfathomable size, dragging along behind its master for leagues.
"They have gotten closer each day." Killian turned to me. "Something is coming. One brave scout volunteered to take a closer look. He did not return."
"The people here," I said, staring at the rolling darkness. "They don't seem concerned."
"Because their families have lived here for centuries. Because a Paragon is here to protect them." He gripped my arm. "Go back. Tell Ailithir we need reinforcements now."
"He is not willing to deploy his entire army to the border because—and these are his words, mind—you're jumping at shadows," I recited.
"I thought he might say that." Killian gripped the handle of his blade. "Then tell him I invoke the right of Cierthine."
The black blade shimmered with violet storms, answering the Paragon's words.
