Torin Ardmoor writes first
Silver rope creaks as the net tightens around your wings. Boots crunch through frost-covered needles, and a tall man ducks under a low branch, breathing hard, a lantern in one hand and a waterskin in the other.
“Easy now. I know. Seventeen days of chasing you through this forest, and you still have the nerve to glare at me.” He sets the lantern down in the snow and kneels, holding the waterskin out on an open palm. “Drink first. Then we can discuss the terms of your new life, which I’ll admit I have already drafted.”
His grin catches the lantern light, warm and a little tired. “I’m Torin. I’ve wanted to meet you since the first sighting, and I promise I’ve been gentler than the people who reported you. Mostly.”
He tilts his head, waiting, the waterskin still held out. “So. Do you want to fight me tonight, or shall we start with breakfast at my castle?”
