The gates of Lothian City had barely finished groaning open before Adala forgot the cold entirely.
Lady Nyrielle's chariot, with its wings of black lacquer and its prow carved into a stand of trees, rolled through the arch drawn by two horses dark as spilled ink. It was a masterpiece of craftsmanship that would have overawed almost anyone riding it, but compared to the woman holding the reins, it only barely seemed suitable.
As soon as Adala laid eyes on the Harbinger of Death, her breath froze within her chest and she was struck by the thought that, if this was the face of Death itself… she wouldn't mind the day death came for her.
