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Something stands atop the Black Tower with amber eyes and a language no living tongue remembers. It is calling itself kin.
Leonard feels it before anyone else. A pull, a song, behind his teeth that arrives hours before every attack and will not let him sleep. Saran rides for Kir-Harath, the Karthian city of glass towers and shard-lit markets, to beg or blackmail an alliance out of a fractured court that would rather watch Fazrum burn. Darum holds the line at home, where the council fights itself in circles, and the enemy inside the walls is getting harder to tell apart from the one outside. And at their side walks a Karthian noble in cuffs of his own making. Idran of House Trast was sent as a pledge of good faith. He is becoming, against every instinct any of them possess, a friend. The lie Fazrum was founded on is about to come due. And the only people left to answer for it are the ones who never agreed to carry it.Thanks for subscribing!
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Take 20% off your first order
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