A horn blast—three short, urgent blows—made heads snap to attention.
“The scouts, Your Majesty,” shouted one of the hundred archers stationed atop the marble wall. “They’re returning. Fast.”
The announcement was unnecessary. At the head of the procession, Zanthus and the Avalons could see the three scouts flying over the gently rolling hills, their horse’s manes and their own braids whipped behind them by the wind. The steeds tossed their heads, nostrils wide. One of the scouts blew again on his horn, looki...
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