Ten paces from the gates and a broken, venomous shout shattered through my heart. “Roark.” It was the only voice capable of bringing Roark to pause. The horse snorted and Roark twisted around, peering through the wisps of mists the shadow of Skul Drek kept stirring. Thane, sweat-soaked and weary, let his sword fall from his grip. Roark winced, and pressed a hand to his chest, a simple gesture, a plea for forgiveness. The prince’s face twisted with pain, and Roark Ashwood turned his back on Stonegate, racing us into the wood beyond the gates.
