King Aldric sat at his desk, the polished oak buried beneath mountains of parchment. Not a single page was neat — all bore the same desperate scrawl, different hands but the same message.
He picked one from the pile.
"The god of the north returns…"
He tossed it aside and picked another.
"Our ships are burning…"
Another still.
"Your son — he slaughters us all…"
The script changed from curling noble hands to the blocky ink of common scribes, but the words remained identical in weight and despair. Even the salutation Your Majesty felt thinner with every letter, as though the writers no longer truly believed the crown could help them.
Aldric set the paper down and exhaled slowly through his nose. The crackle of the fireplace seemed louder in the silence.
It had been over a year since anyone had dared utter "god of the north."
Lanard.
The boy who had left his sight defeated.
