But the door to the study opened again, and the Prime stood there, a hand on the jamb to support himself. “The mystic,” the Prime said, panting slightly, as if the walk from his desk to the door had winded him. “What did she look like?” “Brown hair. Medium brown, I think. Pale skin.” A common enough description. “And her scent? Was it like snow and embers?” Ithan stilled. The ground seemed to sway. “How do you know that?” The old wolf bowed his silvery head. “Because Sabine is not the only Fendyr heir.”
