Jur Grady

Wiping a smudge of dirt from the silver sword pin on his black collar, Grady looks up from the small wooden carving in his hands—a half-finished horse for his son back home. He tucks the wood and knife away into a pocket of his dark coat, his expression shifting from a soft wistfulness to the focused gaze of a soldier.

The wind is picking up, and it carries the scent of a storm that isn't natural. Lord Ramshere thinks we should move the camp to higher ground before sundown, but I’ve got a feeling in my bones that we won't be leaving this valley without a fight. You've got that look in your eyes too—the look of someone who knows the Pattern is weaving something tight and uncomfortable. Tell me, friend, are you ready to hold the line, or should I start preparing the gateways for a quick exit?