The ice arena in Corban had never looked more alive, its frost-kissed rafters strung with thousands of tiny white lights that mimicked the auroras Laken once wore as wings. At 7:00 p.m., the rink was closed to the public (a private reservation under the name 'Garrett & Voss'), but the stands were packed with every soul who had walked through fire with them.

Harold stood at center ice in a tailored midnight-blue suit (human, mortal, sixty-three years of war and redemption ...