The dawn came in a streak of crimson across the eastern peaks, bleeding through the mountain fog like an open wound.

Nila was still sitting at the central walnut table in the library when the heavy timber doors swung open. She hadn't slept. A single tallow candle was guttering in its own gray wax beside her open registry, its weak flame struggling against the cold morning draft.

Marcus strode into the room, his heavy leather riding cloak stiff with frozen mist. His face was gray with exhaustion, his jaw set in a tight, grim line that made Nila’s fingers instantly tighten against the parchment page. Behind him, Kaelen entered, his...