Bab 90: The silver Dawn.

The air in the foyer was thick, clinging to their skin as they all stared, each man, guard, and servant rooted to the spot.

The lifeless bodies of Meholt and Zahai hung from the upper staircase railing, their faces drawn and dark in death, shadows pulling across the hollowed skin beneath their eyes.

Alan, the unreadable face of Aric's guard, clenched his jaw, his hand gripping his sword hilt as though it were the only thing holding him steady.

The silence stretched, each person looking to the prince, awaiting his command.

Aric, his gaze not faltering, looked up at the bodies of his men and felt a cold settle in his chest. For a long moment, he didn't move, only the barely-there flicker of his eyelids betraying his slight shock, his own grief.

Then, with a swift breath, he turned toward Alan, a look sharp enough to carve stone.

"Bring them down," he commanded, his voice low, yet biting.