Return signal.
Aylin froze. Her heart lurched upward, and in the next breath, she was moving—past the armory, up the spiral steps two at a time, until she reached the upper courtyard and threw open the heavy doors to the outer watch balcony.
Snow was falling. Thick now. The wind howled across the battlements.
And down below, riding through the main gate beneath the iron torches, came Sasha.
He sat astride his massive black warhorse like some creature of legend, his hair wind-tossed, face half-shadowed beneath the iron-furred collar of his cloak. His armor was splattered with blood. A long crimson streak trailed from his jaw down to his collarbone. His hands were dirty, gloves torn at the knuckles. His wolf eyes burned brighter than the snow falling around him.
