The morning the emissary arrived, the air carried a different kind of weight—like the sky itself was holding its breath.
Reed stood barefoot in the blackstone courtyard, staring toward the horizon where a trail of gold-and-silver banners rippled through the mist. They did not march like an army. They did not sneak like spies. They came with pomp, protocol, and the stench of old power.
A rider at the front blew a thin silver horn. The note was high, clean, and cold.
Shia appeared at Reed's side, expression unreadable beneath her dark cowl.
"Lords' Council," she said. "They're late."
"They're afraid."
The emissary dismounted with the grace of a man who had never known mud or blood. He was tall, thin, wrapped in black velvet lined with mirrored runes that shimmered as though reflecting an unseen fire. His face was pale and unlined, and his eyes were two pieces of glass. Artificial, probably.
He bowed low. Not deeply. Not sincerely.
