Gargan leans forward, his broken tusk catching the firelight as he studies the markings. "That leaves the mine roads exposed. Dark elves hit supply trains, not fortified positions."
"Better to lose ore than warriors."
"Tell that to the council when winter stores run low."
I'm about to respond when boots pound against stone in the corridor outside—too fast, too urgent. The door crashes open without ceremony.
A young guard stumbles in, chest heaving, eyes wide with something between panic and revulsion. Blood spatters his leather jerkin in dark, irregular patterns.
"Warleader—"
"Catch your breath first." I set down the charcoal stick I'd been using to mark patrol routes. "Then speak."
He gulps air like a drowning man. "The elder. Maedra. She's—" His voice cracks. "Dead, sir. Murdered."
The map suddenly seems insignificant. I straighten slowly, every muscle coiling with tension. "Where?"
"Temple district. Her chambers. Throat cut clean through."
Gargan's chair scrapes against stone as he rises. His hand moves instinctively to his weapon. "How long ago?"
"Can't say for certain. Found her maybe an hour past. Blood was... there was so much blood."
I'm already moving toward the door, but the guard's next words stop me cold.
"The walls, sir. Someone painted symbols. In her blood."
I take a deep breath in a struggle to control my violent temper. "What kind of symbols?"
"Don't know, sir. Never seen their like."
I push past him into the corridor, Gargan falling into step beside me. The temple district isn't far, but every second stretches like hours. My boots echo off ancient stones as we navigate the twisting passages between the old human architecture and newer orc additions.
The smell hits me first—copper and something else, something burned. Then I see the crowd gathered outside Maedra's chambers, warriors and servants alike clustered in nervous knots, their voices dropping to whispers as I approach.
They part like water before my advance.
The door stands open, revealing the carnage within. Maedra lies crumpled beneath the cold brazier, her gray-green skin now ashen in death. The ceremonial robes she wore are soaked through with blood, dark stains spreading across the fabric like spilled ink.
But it's the walls that make my stomach turn. Symbols smeared in crimson cover nearly every surface—not random violence, but deliberate artistry. Crude representations of flames being extinguished. A pregnant woman with her belly slashed open. A child's skull crushed beneath a boot.
"Gods' blood." Gargan's voice carries genuine shock. "This wasn't robbery."
"No." I kneel beside Maedra's body, careful not to disturb the scene. Her eyes stare sightlessly at the ceiling, but her hands are positioned deliberately—one pointing toward the door, the other clutching something. "This was a statement."
I pry her fingers open. A small piece of charred wood falls into my palm—part of the sacred flame that burned outside Seris's door.
Ice rushes through me, followed by te heat of rage.
I bolt from the chamber, ignoring Gargan's shout behind me. The corridor to Seris's quarters has never seemed longer. My heart pounds against my ribs like a caged beast as I round the final corner.
The brazier outside her door is cold. Dead. Not even embers remain.
I throw open her door without knocking, my heart slamming a violent rhythm like a war drum. The room is dim, lit only by dying embers in the brazier, and for one terrible moment I think?—
But there she is. Curled beneath the furs, one hand resting protectively over her belly even in sleep. Her chest rises and falls in steady rhythm, dark hair spilled across the pillow like ink.
Relief floods through me so violently my knees nearly buckle.
