The dawn sky was blood-orange when Cael and his chosen company rode from Dunharrow. Frost clung to the earth, crunching beneath the hooves of their mounts. Their banners—once flying proudly in full color—were wrapped and hidden, for they rode not in triumph, but in grim purpose.
Rowan rode at Cael’s side, ever watchful, while Lady Siora commanded the rear guard. Two hundred riders in all followed, a fraction of Dunharrow’s strength, but enough to strike fear into bandits or lesser foes. Yet it was not steel they feared—it was the unseen sickness that had crawled like smoke through villages and camps alike.
Behind them, the fortress gates closed with a groan, sealing away both their allies and their enemies. For Cael knew that within Dunharrow’s walls, Alden and his whispering faction wou
