Chaol had given Yrene the title owed to her in marrying him: Lady Westfall. He wondered if he could stomach being called Lord. If it mattered at all, given what bore down upon the city on the Silver Lake. If it would matter at all if they didn’t make it in time. Sartaq braced a hand on the hilt of his sword. “Hold the defenses for as long as you can, Lord Westfall. The ruks will be a day or so behind you, the foot soldiers a week behind that.” Chaol clasped Sartaq’s hand, then Hasar’s. “Thank you.” Hasar’s mouth curved into a half smile. “Thank us if we save your city.”
