A rogue was captured during patrol.
Lois had led the patrol himself, a small team of five warriors who had tracked a lone figure through the northern pass. The rogue had fought hard, but he was outnumbered and underfed. By the time they dragged him through the gates, he was bleeding from a gash on his temple and cursing in a language no one recognized.
Rowan conducted the interrogation himself, in a cell beneath the east wing.
The rogue was gaunt and wild eyed, his clothes little more than rags. He sat shackled to a chair, his lip curled in defiance. Lois stood by the door, his scarred face unreadable.
"Who sent you?" Rowan asked.
He didn’t answer.
"You're part of the camps on the northern border. We've been tracking you for weeks. Who's coordinating them?"
The rogue laughed. It was
