Rhydian's POV
Word reaches me before I've even finished my morning rounds, one of the gate guards jogging up with the particular urgency of a man who'd rather not be the one delivering the news. A rider, alone, from Ashgrove, requesting an audience at the front gate, no advance notice given.
I know before I get there who's likely to be waiting, and I know it isn't going to be a friendly visit dressed up as one.
The envoy is waiting in the front courtyard by the time I reach the gate, a lean, unremarkable man in Ashgrove colors who introduce himself as Ferris, the same advisor I remember hovering nervously at Calloway's dinner table two days ago, though his nerves have hardened into something more careful now, more rehearsed.
"Alpha Vane." He bows, precisely correct, nothing in his post
