He’d returned that evening, smirking like a cat, and had merely said “One hell of a High Lord?” by way of greeting. I’d sent a bucket’s worth of water splashing into his face. Rhys hadn’t bothered to shield against it. And instead shook his wet hair like a dog, spraying me until I yelped and darted away. His laughter had chased me up the stairs. Winter was slowly loosening its grip when I awoke one morning and found another letter from Rhys beside my bed. No pen. No training with your second-favorite Illyrian this morning. The queens finally deigned to write back. They’re coming to your
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