The messenger arrived at dawn.
William saw him from the roof of his house—a figure riding hard up the eastern road, his horse lathered, his cloak flying in the wind. There was something urgent in his posture, something desperate. William climbed down and walked to the gate.
The messenger reined in his horse and dismounted. He was young, barely more than a boy, his face pale with exhaustion. He held out a letter sealed with a symbol William recognized—the silver tree of the Saint, but crossed with a sword.
"I bring word from the eastern valleys," the messenger said, his voice hoarse. "The Reclaimer has returned. He has gathered a new army. He is marching on Veridias."
William took the letter. His hands were steady, but his heart was not.
"How many?" he asked.
"Thousands. He has been r
