She saw his face through tears and smoke. Young — younger than she expected. Mid-twenties, maybe. Jaw like a cliff edge, sharp enough to cut. Dark auburn hair cropped short on the sides and falling across his forehead in unruly waves. Eyes the colour of winter pine — deep green, almost black, with flecks of grey that caught the firelight. A scar ran from his left temple to his jaw, thin and white, old enough to have settled into his skin like it belonged there.
Iron Mane. She could see the sigil on his chest plate — the silver-maned mountain lion of Veyranne, dented and bloody but still there.
"Who—"
"Kael Thyrvane. Third company, Iron Mane. Your father's personal guard."
"Let go of me."
"Not until you get on that horse."
"My father is—"
