The scout arrived at dusk, her horse collapsing from exhaustion at the gates of Ashenford.
Michael was in the garden, as he had been every evening for the past year, tending to the flowers that had become his only escape from the weight of leadership. The routine was meditative, grounding—a reminder that life could grow even in the ashes of war. He heard the commotion before he saw it, the shouts of the guards, the thunder of hooves, the desperate cry of a woman's voice.
He walked to the front gates and found a young woman being helped from her saddle, her clothes torn, her face bruised and bloody. She clutched a sealed scroll in her hand, the wax bearing a symbol he'd never seen before—a broken chain wrapped around a bleeding sun.
"I need to speak with Michael Voss," she gasped. "Urgen
