The message arrived at dawn, carried by a rider whose horse collapsed from exhaustion at the gates of Ashenford. The messenger was young, barely twenty, his face pale with terror. He clutched a sealed scroll in his hand, the wax bearing a symbol Michael had never seen before—a broken chain wrapped around a bleeding sun, with a single word inscribed beneath it in a language that predated any known civilization.
RECKONING.
Michael was in the garden when he heard the commotion. He walked to the gates and found the young man being helped from his saddle, his clothes torn, his body covered in dust and blood. The scroll was thrust into his hands, the wax still warm.
"I bring word from the Alliance," the messenger gasped. "The Great Reckoning has begun. An ancient prophecy is being fulfilled.
