The messenger arrived at dawn, as they always did, riding through the gates of Frosthold on a lathered horse, his face pale with exhaustion and something else, something that looked like fear. I was on the battlements with Kaelen, watching the sun rise over the frozen plain, when the cry went up from the watchtower.
"Rider coming! Messenger from the eastern passes!"
Kaelen's hand tightened on mine. We walked together to the courtyard, where the messenger was already dismounting, his legs unsteady, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He saw the Duke and knelt, his head bowed.
"Your Grace. The Rift is stirring again. The scouts have seen movement shadows in the deep, shapes gathering. Another wave may be coming."
The words hung in the air, heavy and cold. The quiet days were ending. The peace we had found, the fragile happiness, the moments of quiet intimacy—all of it was about to be tested.
