Chapter 51

• The wind in Raven's Cry Gorge was sharp and cold as a dagger's edge. Fine ice and grit stung the face, but Malok stood motionless at the entrance to the cave, as though carved from the same dark stone as the mountains around him.
• His gloved right hand rested on the pommel of his heavy bastard sword. His eyes, accustomed to darkness, swept over the Steel Eagles' camp.
• Veterans of the Northern War passed from time to time. Scarred faces. Blood Circles burned into their wrists. Dark, hostile looks directed at the stranger guarding the witch.