After days of biting cold, Starfall felt like a fortress isolated from the world beyond its glass and stone. Council debates and exhausted compromise had kept most dangers at bay, but the threat of factional rupture lingered everywhere. That tenuous security shattered the moment Lysander failed to return from the river patrol.
It had been routine—a circuit through snow-laden villages, a check on border markets and town watches. Lysander rode ahead, joking about boots swallowed by mud and the curse of winter rations. Kaelan warned him to avoid the northern bends where unrest simmered near the old vaults, but Lysander's pride was irrepressible. The weather darkened, and by dusk, the riders returned without him.
Two guards were poisoned, their minds thick and slow. The remaining advisors arrived battered, their arms marked by wiry bruises. The wagon was lost, winter goods scattered down the icy ravine. Lysander's name echoed in every frantic question.
