The morning wind whispered through the halls of Corzedar Manor, carrying with it the scent of rain and iron.
Weeks had passed since Khael's return, days of laughter, of warmth, of peace he had almost forgotten he deserved.
But peace, like the wind, never stays still for long.
The sound of hurried footsteps broke the stillness.
The great oak doors creaked open, Lord Lito Corzedar looked up from his seat, his expression shifting from ease to command.
A messenger, cloak drenched in dust and sweat, dropped to one knee.
"Lord Corzedar… your son, Lord Arden—he needs your help."
Lito's eyes narrowed. "What happened?"
The messenger swallowed and extended a sealed letter. "It's better if you read it yourself, my lord."
Lito broke the wax with trembling fingers. His eyes scanned the words and his heart sank.
Father,
Forgive me for being incompetent.
My men, our men are afflicted by something beyond our knowledge.
