The first scouts arrived at dawn.
By full morning, the people of Dreamore were everywhere.
They gathered outside Vargorath's walls in waves — families, soldiers, elders, children. Black tents rose across the green fields, spreading fast, choking the land like a sickness. Fires burned low. The air felt heavy.
They had not come as guests.
They had come as survivors.
The Great Gates opened at last and a small company of riders entered the city, moving slowly. At the head of the party was King Maelor. Beside him, Prince Marik sat slumped in his saddle, his face pale and splattered with dried blood. His usual brightness was gone, replaced by hollow silence.
Thornak crossed the courtyard to meet them, his boots loud against the stone.
One look at Marlor, and his chest tightened. He had known his brother all his life. He had never seen Marlor like this. Never this broken.
"What happened, brother?" Thornak asked.
