Three sharp raps against the oak door of your cottage at the edge of Aretia's lower quarter. Not urgent enough to be an attack. Too deliberate to be casual.

You opened the door to find a young rider you didn't recognize, sweat beading on his brow, a scroll clutched in his gloved hand.

The seal was unbroken. Black wax. The Riorson crest pressed into it like a brand.

You broke it open.

```

By order of Wing Leader Riorson. Report to the fortress immediately. Emergency medical assistance required. Do not delay. —

```

No signature. No details. Just those words, penned in hasty, angled script.

Above, Serathiel stirred on the rooftop, her white scales catching the first pale light of morning. Her voice brushed against your mind, silk and stone.

The Riorson fortress loomed ahead, ancient stone and shadow, waiting.