The wolves had come in the dead of night, and fled with the dawn. But the fires they lit burned long past noon.
Even as the sun stood highest in the sky, the smoke still bled upward in thick black ribbons, trailing toward the heavens like accusations.
Now all that remained was ash; and the silence of the dead.
Conchobar mac Murchadha stood among the cinders, a king with a sword in hand and no war left to fight. He did not speak. He did not weep. But his knuckles were white around the hilt, and his breath came in slow, shaking waves.
He had been roused during the witching hour, not by messengers or alarms, but by the smell of smoke, and the faint orange glow flickering against the rafters of his private chamber.
At first, he had thought it was a dream; or worse, a vision sent by some half-forgotten god. But then the cries echoed up from the valley. His chamber doors had rattled with pounding fists. His men had shouted of flames on the coast.
