In Athax, late into the evening.
Killan was roused by the sound of boots.
Frantic and purposeful. The kind of sound that meant someone had already decided this could not wait.
He opened his eyes to lamplight and the shadow of Harlan standing near the door, armor half-fastened, hair loose from sleep.
"There's a rider at the inner gate," Harlan said quietly. "Frost Fire."
Killan was already sitting up.
"Through sealed borders?" he asked.
"Yes, Your Grace."
That was all the confirmation he needed as he stood up and all but ran to the war room, where Harlan told him the messenger was.
The war room of Athax was lit like a wound kept open—lamps burning low and steady, maps spread across the long oak table, weights holding down curled corners. Red and black markers stood where armies might move. Nothing yet showed where Aya was.
That changed when the doors opened.
