Ludwig's eyes shifted to the side.
Van Dijk's face had changed.
The Black Tower Master was still smiling, in the most technical sense. His mouth held the shape of one, faint and controlled, but nothing about it carried amusement anymore. His eyes had become calm. Cold. Very cold. The kind of cold that made the icefields of Solania seem loud and childish by comparison. Celine was his sister. Difficult, stubborn, proud, and far too eager to throw herself into training she was not ready for, but still his sister. Now she hung beneath the arm of one of the throne carriers, limp and bloodied, in the possession of the enemy's highest command.
Getting to her would be difficult.
Van Dijk looked at the distance between them, at the horde, at the four monstrous amalgamations carrying the sofa-like throne, at the giant slumped upon it as if the entire invasion were an exhausting inconvenience, and seemed to regard danger as nothing more than a side effect.
Ludwig stopped.
