Nyrielle turned to face the grove. She didn't raise her voice because she didn't need to. The crackle of the bonfires was louder than the most fervent of whispered prayers in the deepening darkness of the night, and her words carried clearly to the furthest edges of the Enchanted Grove.
"All of you will leave this place," Nyrielle said. "Now."
A ripple went through the crowd. There was an uncomfortable shuffling of feet accompanied by a faint murmur of protest. A few heads turned from Nyrielle to the gates of the ancient fortress, but no one moved toward the path.
Then a single figure stepped forward from among the Blackwell men.
Sir Elgon Prowell was not a young man anymore. His mustache had gone more grey than brown, and the cold made his old wounds ache. Nyrielle could see it in the stiff way he held his left arm and the cautious way that he moved as if he couldn't entirely trust his own body after standing watch in the cold for so long.
