Page 47

The corridors are unusually active. Zagfer servants carry additional lamps toward the receiving hall. Human workers track melted snow across the stone before attendants follow with cloths. Everyone bows as I pass.

A new lady changes the household hierarchy before she receives the title. Servants will watch every exchange, searching for evidence of influence, weakness, favor, or future danger.

A human bride will attract more scrutiny than any Khuzuth match.

I descend the main staircase.

Wind moans through the high passage windows. The stronghold’s wards keep the worst cold outside, though snow gathers against the glass in white ridges.

Two guards open the receiving-hall doors.

Fiona Holt stands near the central hearth.

She has removed her wet cloak but retains a plain dark dress made from coarse wool. Snow melts along its hem. A chestnut braid hangs over one shoulder, secured by a worn wooden comb. Her pale skin is freckled across her face and hands.

The reports described her as sturdy.

They were accurate.

She is broad-shouldered for a human woman, with the strength of someone accustomed to hauling water, moving patients, and working without servants. Her calloused hands rest at her sides. They bear fresh scrapes and a narrow cloth binding around one knuckle.

She is smaller than every dark elf in the room.

She makes no attempt to appear smaller.

Her pale blue eyes meet mine.

Humans usually lower their gaze when confronted by a Khuzuth lord. Some require correction. Others understand instinctively that direct attention can be interpreted as challenge.

Fiona looks directly at me for several breaths, then bows according to the minimum courtesy owed my rank.

“Lord Morwen’thir.”

Her voice is steady.

“Fiona Holt.”

I descend the final step into the hall.

She studies my height, dark skin, formal coat, and the house ring held in hand. Her attention pauses at the platinum hair falling over my right shoulder. The left side remains shaved close in the manner I have worn for more than a century.

I expect fear when I approach.

Her fingers close once against her skirt, but her gaze remains level.

“Was the journey tolerable?” I ask.

“No.”

Sarveth stands behind me. I do not need to see her disapproval.

“The mountain road is difficult during a squall.”

“The road was less difficult than the destination.”

Direct, then.

“You accepted the contract.”