I recognized his broad shoulders, his sculpted lips, and his clean-shaven jawline. His lips parted, as if he would speak, and he reached a tentative hand toward me. “Tyr,” I mouthed. With a small sob, I threw myself into his arms, burying my face in the folds of his cloak on his chest. He locked me in a tight embrace, pressing his lips to my forehead, and then loosened his grip enough to stroke my hair. After two months, it was nearly down to my chin. Silver strands now that Mum wasn’t here to dye it.
