Lord Sorza's eyes flew open as steel shrieked outside his tent.
Not the orderly clamor of training yards—this was the raw, discordant symphony of battle: blades biting flesh, hooves pounding earth, men screaming their last into the smoke-choked night. He was moving before conscious thought took hold, fingers closing around the dagger beneath his pillow as the tent flaps tore open, fearing the worst.
Luckily the worse did not come to fruit.
Two guards stood silhouetted against the hellish glow instead. The taller one spoke through gritted teeth:
"My lord—the camp's overrun. Your father commands your presence. Now."
No hesitation. No questions.
Sorza rolled from his bed , his bare feet hitting the ground as his free hand snatched his sword belt. Leather hissed as he cinched it tight, the weight of his blade a familiar comfort against his thigh. His cloak billowed behind him like a stormcloud as he plunged into the nightmare beyond.
