The messenger arrived at midnight, his horse lathered with sweat, his face pale with exhaustion and terror.
Michael was in his office, unable to sleep as usual, reviewing reports from the Alliance about the aftermath of the Eternal War. The continent was in chaos—warlords were fighting over the scraps of the fallen council, cities were burning, and refugees were flooding into Ashenford by the thousands. He had spent the evening organizing relief efforts, coordinating with Petrov's dockworkers, and trying to find space for the endless stream of displaced families.
The knock on his door was urgent, insistent. Michael looked up as a young man burst into the room, his clothes torn, his body covered in dust and dried blood.
"Michael Voss," the man gasped. "I bring word from the Alliance. The
