AZARADAN
General Qin knew something was wrong long before he reached the palace gates.
The journey back from the Blood Mountains had taken two full days, two days of mud, wind, and impatient anticipation. He had ridden harder than his horse deserved, driven by the ugly thrill beating in his chest. He had made his wish. The witch had accepted it. All that remained was to see whether fate had moved as swiftly as promised.
Then, from a distance, he saw them.
A crowd clothed in white.
Gathered before the gates.
Waiting.
Mourning.
Qin felt heat bloom through his body.
White meant only one thing in Azaradan: the king was dying.
For one terrible, glorious instant, joy nearly split him open. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to throw back his head and praise the heavens for their cruelty. Bukka, his oldest friend, his greatest obstacle, was finally falling.
At last.
