The messenger collapsed at the gates of Ashenford, her body riddled with arrows, her face a mask of blood and exhaustion. She had ridden for three days without rest, pursued by enemies who wanted her dead. In her hand, she clutched a scroll sealed with the mark of the Crimson Legion—a bleeding sun on a field of black.
Michael found her in the medical wing, surrounded by healers who were working frantically to save her life. The wounds were severe, the arrows deeply embedded, but the woman's spirit was stronger than her injuries.
"Michael Voss," she gasped, her hand reaching for him. "I have a message from the Crimson Legion."
"Save your strength," Michael said, kneeling beside her. "We can talk when you're healed."
"There's no time." Her voice was desperate. "The Legion is coming. They
