"Fuck, fuck, who did this," Malcolm muttered as he touched the cardboard box, his voice rough.

I froze, my breath catching in my throat. Slowly I stepped back, but my eyes couldn't look away. Several guards crowded around, their faces pale as sheets.

It was Steven Howard's head. Our war general. The man who had earned the highest ranking for five consecutive years in every evaluation. The man who had never lost a strategic battle, who trained every soldier with an iron hand but fair judgment. Who always stood at Malcolm's right side in every council meeting.

His neck had been severed brutally, flesh and muscle exposed in a cut...