Chapter Four
In a camp outside the Illusian border…
Titus reclined on pillows inside his tent. He unsheathed his knife, laying it by his bed. The night was old and seemed to crawl upon his eyes like a spider weaving a web across his lids.
There was a rustle outside the tent, muffled voices and the sound of footsteps.
“Who’s there!”
Castiglia, first man to Titus, moved through the doorway. “We have word, Sir, on a raid of your Western stronghold.”
Titus took notice… he was not a tall man, but a stocky one, with black, curly hair, a shaved face, and a surprisingly youthful look in his complexion. He moved easily from his reclining pose and to his feet. “A raid from where?” He spoke fast, suspicion and fury rising in his searing eyes.
“That is not known.”
“Illusia?” he spit out the n
