Alya's spear left her hand as a streak of white fire, punching through the manor gate in one breath. The iron split down its seam and crashed inward, scattering splinters across a courtyard that still smelled of pancakes.
"Hajin Flint, in the name of the White Chamber, you are cleansed," she called, striding through the wreckage.
Twelve Chamber knights filed in behind her in a perfect line, armor flashing, visors shut against the morning. Alya slept none of the long night, the orders crumpled in her gloved fist heavier than any lance.
She refused to look at the smoke curling from the kitchen chimney, or the toy wooden bird on the windowsill.
'Orders are orders, the leash does not care what I think about them.'
The Dawnbreak flew back into her palm, trailing sparks that hissed against the wet flagstones.
