The message arrived before dawn.
A courier cloaked in soot and blood staggered through the palace gates, collapsing before the sentries could call his name. Aric was already awake, standing by the window when the door burst open.
The parchment was placed in his hands — sealed with wax bearing the sigil of Byzeth.
Serina, still half-dressed, watched his expression shift as he broke it open.
The words were brief. Cold. Efficient.
The armies of Ogard and BlackIron have begun their march toward Byzeth.
For a moment, the world narrowed to that line. The faint crackle of fire from the brazier filled the silence between them.
Serina stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "Sylas?"
Aric didn't answer. His jaw clenched, the letter curling in his hand until the wax shattered.
He had expected it. He'd known his brother wouldn't sit idle while Aric built alliances beneath his nose. But knowing didn't ease the heat crawling beneath his skin.
