Outside, boots scuffed against stone. Distant voices echoed through the corridor. Then the heavy front doors of the barracks groaned open.

A commotion rose in the yard—horses snorting, urgent commands, the clatter of gear hitting the ground.

Torchlight flickered over the yard. Three riders had come through the gates, and one of them—Levi, his cloak torn and stained—was carrying a limp body in his arms.

Blood dripped onto the stones. The body was small. Still. A mess of dirty hair obscured the face.