A messenger arrived at dawn, his horse lathered in sweat, his face the colour of old ash.
Seren found him in the courtyard, surrounded by guards who had pulled him from the saddle. He was young, barely old enough to grow a beard, and his left arm hung at a wrong angle, broken in at least two places.
"The villages," he gasped. "They're burning them."
.
.
.
An hour later, the council chamber was full.
Aeron stood at the head of the table, the messenger's report spread before him. Kael paced by the window, his hands clenched into fists. Theron sat in the corner, unusually still, his eyes tracking every face in the room.
Seren stood beside Aeron, the locket warm against her chest. Lord Pemberton and other loyal nobles filled the benches. Even Lady Sera had come, summoned from the eastern delegation's quarters.
"Three villages," Aeron said. "Northwood, Fernglen, and Oakstead. All within twenty miles of the border. All attacked last night."
Kael stopped pacing. "Casualties?"
