The next morning wasn't the same.
Delwig awoke beneath a shroud of silence—a kind of silence that weighed heavier than the fog rolling off its walls.
The markets didn't stir, no distant clangs of blacksmiths rang through the courtyards, and even the birds perched on the watchtowers seemed reluctant to sing. The first light of dawn bled across the cobbled streets like a wound reopening.
Veyne was dead.
They found him just beyond the northern gate, his body lying in the frost-damp grass beside two of the guards who had manned the tower through the night.
The report came early. Too early.
Damien had barely been asleep when the pounding on his door began. A young guard stood there, wide-eyed and pale, the breath misting from his lips in the cold. "Sir Damien—General Ivaan requests your presence. Urgently. It's… it's Captain Veyne."
Damien blinked the sleep from his eyes, his thoughts foggy. "What about him?"
The boy swallowed. "Captain Veyne's dead, sir."
