Dearest, most observant reader, the third day dawned not with a sun, but with a shroud. The sky over Nevareth did not wake; it merely shifted from the bruised purple of night to a leaden, suffocating gray.
The wind howled through the high mountain passes like a wounded beast, carrying with it the herald of the Long Dark... the polar night that turned this empire into a beautiful, frozen tomb for months on end.
But inside the palace, the air was anything but cold. It was thick with the scent of woodsmoke, spiced wine, and the kind of gossip that could melt a glacier.
In the guest chambers of the middle wing, the atmosphere was as brittle as thin ice. King Caelen of Solmire paced the length of his parlor, his boots striking the rug with a rhythmic, frantic energy. He looked like a man trying to outrun a ghost.
"Faster," Caelen snapped at the servants who were currently folding his tunics into heavy leather trunks. "We need to be at the gates by midday."
