The messenger arrived at dusk, his horse lathered and trembling, its flanks heaving with exhaustion. The beast had been ridden hard, pushed to the limit of its endurance, and the foam at its mouth spoke of desperate miles covered in desperate haste. The guards at the gate admitted him without question; the seal of the second prince was unmistakable, a silver crescent moon on a field of deep blue, pressed into the wax of the leather satchel he carried.
He was escorted through the corridors of Frosthold, his boots echoing on the ancient stone, his breath still coming in ragged gasps. Servants stepped aside, their eyes wide, their whispers trailing behind him like smoke. The warriors they passed stiffened, their hands moving to their weapons, sensing that the news he carried was not good.
