Kingfisher. He emerged from the cloud of black smoke like a night terror stepping through the shadowy gates of hell. He wore the same shirt he’d been wearing in the forge. The same pants, too. But now he also wore his chest protector and his gorget, and in his hand, he held Nimerelle aloft, the black sword crackling with an unseen power that drew that darkness to it like a shroud. Kingfisher’s boots planted firmly on the lip of the pool. There he stayed, blocking the path between me and my brother. His eyes blazed. “I’m hurt. Leaving without saying goodbye?”
