The rhythmic thrum of heavy cavalry arrived long before the first silhouettes appeared against the dawn. It was the synchronized, heavy gallop of armored horses, a sound unique to the high noble houses. Vane lay in the snow, his eyes fixed on the bruised purple sky while he counted his own shallow breaths. He could feel the warmth from Valerica's hand, a lingering heat that served as the only anchor keeping him from slipping into the dark. Mara was a small, shivering weight between them. Her breathing was thin but steady.
"They are coming," Valerica whispered. Her voice was cracked and hollow. The golden light had vanished from her eyes, replaced by a deep, weary violet. "Vane, your arm. We have to hide the necrotic signature. If the healers see that, they will know it was a Justiciar level strike."
