The messenger arrived before dawn.

He was young, maybe sixteen, with Silvermoon markings on his neck and nothing left in his eyes. He'd been running for days. Marina could tell by the way he moved, that hollow automatic motion of someone whose body had kept going after everything else stopped.

Silvain caught him when his legs gave out at the entrance.

"Speak," Silvain said. Not unkind. Just direct.

The boy's mouth opened. Closed. He tried again. "They're gone."

Marina crouched in front of him. "Who's gone."

"All of them." His voice broke on it. "The elders. The council. Everyone who had a title, anyone Obsidian thought could organize resistance." He...