“Water,” he ordered a nearby guard. “Now.”
The courier’s knees buckled with relief. His eyes tracked every movement like an animal expecting a blow. Rohannes didn’t waste time with comfort.
“You come from the border?” he asked.
The courier licked his lips, throat bobbing. “S—Sunspire,” he managed.
Rohannes’s jaw tightened. Sunspire was not a fortress city. It wasn’t built for siege. It was a leftover relic from a time when Val-Or ruled the land. Its walls were old stone, its garrison light, its people traders and farmers who lived under the assumption that Seraveth’s gold would shield them the way it always had.
Korvath had shown them what assumptions cost.
“How many survivors?” Rohannes asked.
The courier’s gaze dropped. “I—I don’t know. But…the smoke was visible for miles after I left. I’ve never run so fast…”
Rohannes closed his eyes for a single heartbeat. Then he straightened.
“Take him to the kitchens,” he told the guard that brought water. “Feed him. Keep him within the lower wing until I return.”
The guard hesitated, thrown by the sudden weight in Rohannes’s voice. “Yes, Captain.”
Rohannes turned toward the palace doors. He moved quickly, but never ran. Running belonged to panic. He was not permitted to panic in his station.
He went straight to Val-Theris.
The king’s private office was lit from within, even at this hour. A thin line of pale light cut beneath the door. Rohannes raised his hand and pushed through the door without warning or formality.
Val-Theris stood at the tall window with his back half-turned, wings drawn close, hair unbound in the way he wore it only when he believed no one would see him. He appeared as thoughhe was savoring the moments before he was forced to appear as a king again.
He turned when Rohannes entered, and something in his expression sharpened immediately. The Angelicus Prime did not waste time with preamble. He crossed the room and offered the folded parchment.
“News from Sunspire,” he said.
His eyes went still as he read the letter. His face emptied. His wings closed quickly as if someone had wrapped a chain around them.
He read the letter twice as Rohannes had. Then, very slowly, he lowered it to the desk.
“They sacked one of my cities.”
“Yes.”
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.
Val-Theris turned away from the desk and stared at the window again. The sun had begun to crest the rooftops, bathing Solmiris in its false calm. The world looked too peaceful for the violence creeping closer.
Rohannes watched his king carefully. In the years he’d served him, he’d learned to recognize the small signs—how Val-Theris’s fingers stilled when he was calculating, how his wings pulled closer when he was trying to hold something inside.
“Do you know if the garrison still stands?” Val-Theris asked quietly.
Rohannes swallowed. “Overrun. Whoever was present is either dead or fled toward another city.”
“Summon the generals,” he said. “All of them. Now.”
Rohannes nodded. “Yes, Majesty.”
“And send riders to patrol the borders,” Val-Theris added. “Korvath can cross anywhere. I want every inch of this kingdom fortified by nightfall.”
Val-Theris reached for another parchment, ink already staining his fingers as if his body knew what was required before his mind had finished processing it.
