The blood was still warm when Michael found it.
He had been walking the perimeter of Ashenford's eastern wall, as he did every night, his eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of threat. The city was quiet, peaceful, its people sleeping soundly in their beds. For a moment, Michael allowed himself to believe that the wars were finally over, that the peace he had fought so hard to achieve would last.
Then he saw the body.
It was one of Petrov's men, a young dockworker named Marcus who had volunteered for the night watch. He lay sprawled against the base of the wall, his throat cut from ear to ear, his eyes still open in surprise. In his hand, he clutched a piece of paper, the words scrawled in his own blood.
THE OBSIDIAN HAND HAS COME FOR YOU.
Michael knelt beside the body, his jaw ti
