“YOUR TIMING BLOODY SUCKS,” Simon Northam, Duke of Hurstgrove, said as his boots crunched on the snowy field. Charred ruins rose like specters in the foggy distance. Fat gray clouds and evening mist promised more bad weather.
“Tell that to Mathias.” Bram Rion brushed back his tawny wind-blown hair.
“True,” Duke, as Simon preferred to be called, conceded.
There was no convenient time for Mathias d’Arc to attack Bram’s home. But weeks ago, he and his Anarki army had descended on Bram’s residence in the hopes of...