Standing there, a foot shorter than the rulers of the kingdom, in borrowed clothes not nearly as fine, Dawsyn holds the room in her hands. Her body has not been kept by the many servants of a palace, but forged in the ice of a prison. Her parted lips are red and raw from the wind of the mountain, not painted in wine from a lifetime of feasts. Still, she commands them. And Ryon sees her clearly. The Queens, the guards,
