Vault of Dreams

[He] lost himself in that tremendous rush of human emotion, torn from the throat to rage against the oppressive sky clinging lower and lower to the misty hills and the deadly stones tumbling from its slate skin, and before he knew it, he was moving, tears streaming his eyes to whip the horse into full gallop, riding on a surge of voices rushing to close the distance between the living and the dead.

Death was in the air, stalking whom it willed, whom it pleased. The silent executioner, the thief of a single moment in time, slicing the spine of those who had their back turned, stopping the pulse of them who dared take a moment to catch their breath.

She was no longer barefoot, no longer clothed in simple linen that shimmered like white pearls […] she had dreamed a dream that would not die, and the world she had seen would be her pallet and brush.

“For there is no greater love to be given from one man to another than to give up your life for your brother…”

”I’ve been looking for you.” He said, which made Finleigh smile hollowly, to think Rhoswen had once said the same thing and now here she was, about to be an agent of the Crown Heir some thought had been killed, others wished to be killed, and others still who would gladly kill in the name of to restore the Throne to the memory of her father.

“And here I am.” Finleigh said, flatly, her bubbliness subdued and hushed by the emptiness around her. Nearly a mile away, the camp was feasting in preparation of their leaving of the forest, finally ready to head north and exact Rhoswen’s revenge upon Faer Morgance.

[…] “Oh, the tattoo…” Nevan rubbed the back of his neck again, ruffling his brown hair, which, like the color of his eyes, was nondescriptly Alban in the way that he could get lost in a crowd. All his life he’d been marked as something other than what he was, if he even knew what it was that he was, soaking up the skipped-over judgments and believing in their lies.

I love this land with everything I am, my Queen, and I’ll do whatever you want me to in order to save it.

The colorful gypsies of Nairnsmoor and beyond mingled through the square in their bold hues, beckoning the shiny-faced and open-palmed off to the spicy-smelling side streets where their carts served salty flatbreads and skewered lamb dripping with thick red and green sauces and flamboyantly painted booths promised muster and fortune in folds of darkness.

He could do nothing about it now, nothing about his guilt, his regret, his wondering if the love of the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen would’ve eaten him alive like he always thought or if he’d misinterpreted the whole damn thing, just a man who could never see straight because he’d grown under the shadow of a half-blood and self-hate, tempered with an inherited addiction to large quantities of whiskey, deep-rooted in the pain of killing his own Nord brothers because the Crown gave him no other choice.

And just like the good luck piece carved into a merchant ship's bow, Ultan refused to move during the crossing, staring daggers into the slender curve of infinity, scarcely blinking as he hardened himself deep inside to become the sword unsheathed to divide the world asunder.

But her smile was a whisper, just a faint ghost of moonlight illuminating alabaster skin.

Even thought hell was not on his heels.
Just a woman, named The Thistle.
Robed in darkness, clothed in wind and rain.

And with that, Faer Morgance whisked away through the door, leaving Brandon stunned in a wash of jasmine and image that would plague his dreams for the rest of his life.
Least of all the imprint of her hand, burning on his skin.