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The morning after the wall’s strange reverberations dawned pale and thin, as if the sun itself hesitated to climb above the treetops. The citadel stirred sluggishly. Emil felt it in the shuffle of boots across stone, the half-hearted clang of weapons as squires dragged themselves into formation. No one said outright that something was wrong, but the silence between words carried a brittle edge. Knights spoke in murmurs at the well, exchanging glances sharper than their voices. The cook at the mess hall set bowls down harder than usual, startling even the most thick-skinned apprentices. Only Kael seemed unchanged. He stood at the yard’s edge with arms folded, gaze sweeping over the line of squires as though weighing each one on invisible scales. When his eyes passed over Emil, Emil thought
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