The summons arrived at dawn, delivered by a rider whose horse had been run nearly to death.
I was already awake—sleep had become a luxury I couldn't afford since Elian's poisoning. Every creak of floorboards, every distant footstep sent my hand reaching for the dagger I now kept under my pillow.
The rider was escorted directly to our chambers by Shadow Guard, his clothes stained with road dust and what looked like blood.
"Your Majesties," he gasped, dropping to one knee. "Message from Port Khalim. Urgent. The harbormaster sends word that a foreign delegation has arrived requesting immediate audience with the empress."
"What delegation?" Darius asked, already reaching for his sword belt.
"They claim to represent the Merchant Prince of the Eastern Kingdoms. They're requesting negotiation under flag of truce." The rider pulled out a sealed letter, the wax bearing an unfamiliar crest—a ship with golden sails. "They say they have information about Lord Aeric's whereabouts."
