Draven's pov
The scent of smoke still lingered in the southern docks when the report hit my desk. My men laid the parchment before me with trembling hands, as if it were dipped in poison. A red wax seal, cracked and smeared from the journey, bore a sigil I hadn't seen in months.
A chariot. Blazing. Unmistakable.
Eira's family crest.
"Say that again," I growled, my voice dangerously calm as my eyes scanned the page.
The soldier flinched. "Six armed assailants at the loading bay, sir. They ambushed our cargo crew at dusk. All wore black armor… with the katz crest burned into their breastplates."
My teeth clenched. The words felt like a betrayal wrapped in silk. I stood from my chair slowly, the wood creaking beneath the sudden absence of weight.
"Did they succeed?" I asked, forcing my rage to simmer beneath the surface.
"No, sir. We stopped them. One dead. Three captured. Two escaped."
"And the captured?"
