The messenger arrived at dawn, her horse collapsing from exhaustion as she reached the gates of Ashenford.
Michael was in the garden, as he had been every morning for the past six months, tending to the flowers that Old Kael had loved. 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. She clutched a sealed scroll in her hand, the wax bearing a symbol Michael had never seen before—a broken crown above a burning city.
"I need to speak with Michael Voss," she gasped. "Urgently."
"I'm Michael Voss."
S
