The interior of the Imperial Carriage was a crucible of impossible energies. Outside, the world was a blur of freezing wetlands and grey skies as Damon drove the war-stallions toward the border with a desperate, silent fury.
Due to the sheer urgency of their flight, the men of the West and North had been left behind in the city they had just abandoned; they had to move with the greatest possible speed now, as time was a luxury they could no longer afford to lose. Inside, the air hummed with a frequency that made the silver-leaf lining the walls vibrate like the wings of a trapped bird.
Arkon von Hiver sat at the head of the stone slab, his face a mask of crystalline concentration. His hands were braced against the marble of the carriage floor, sapphire light pouring from his fingertips into the base of the statue. He was the anchor, the bridge, the cold logic keeping the reality of the physical world from collapsing.
