The rain had begun before dawn—thin at first, like breath on glass—then thickened into a steady silver curtain. Above it, Alysanne rode.

Silverwing’s wings carved the mist into ribbons, each beat scattering droplets that flashed and vanished in the gray air. The dragon’s scales gleamed dull pewter beneath the storm, not the shining argent of her name but something softer, aged—like moonlight buried under years of duty.

Alysanne pressed closer to the saddle, the rain whispering against her cloak. The air was cold enough to sting her cheeks, but she did not mind. The cold cleared the mind; it cut through the noise of council chambers and courtiers’ tongues.

Below, the forests of the Reach rolled endlessly, dark and sodden. The rivers had burst their banks—white threads winding through drowned fields. Somewhere down there, peasants cursed the sky and prayed to gods that had no time for rain. Alysanne envied them their prayers. Hers had grown too complicated.

Mercy, she thought, is not soft. Mercy must hold the sword steady when justice would tremble.

Silverwing turned her head slightly, one great eye glimmering like molten silver through the downpour. Alysanne reached forward and laid her gloved hand on the warm scales between the ridges of her neck. The dragon rumbled, low and deep—a sound more felt than heard.