The messenger arrived at Seren's camp just before dawn, his horse stumbling with exhaustion, his face frozen in a mask of horror.
Seren met him at the edge of the firelight. Captain Voss had his sword drawn. Lysa stood behind them, clutching a blanket around her shoulders.
"Report," Seren said.
The messenger slid from his saddle. His hands were shaking. "Your Highness. The assassination operation. It failed."
Seren's blood turned to ice. "Failed how?"
"Seven targets dead. The lieutenants. The quartermasters. The informant." The messenger swallowed hard. "But General Thorne was not among them."
"Impossible." Voss stepped forward. "The intelligence was solid. He was supposed to be there."
"He was." The messenger's voice cracked. "He left an hour before the operatives struck. Someone warned him."
Silence fell over the camp.
Seren's mind raced. Thorne was alive. The man who had sworn revenge, who had burned villages, who had made her the focus of his hatred—still breathing.
