CHAPTER 850: UNWELCOME NEWS (PART ONE)

A fire burned steadily in the otherwise dark and gloomy office of the Lothian Marquis. Unlike the Great Hall, no chandeliers had been lit, and no lamps burned. Outside the large windows of the manor, the gray, overcast skies blotted out the sun, making it feel like evening was approaching even though it wasn’t yet midday.

In front of the hearth, Bors sprawled in an overstuffed chair with his boots and stockings off, toasting his feet by the fire and feeling the softness of a demon-fur rug between his toes.

"You can relax, Gil," the Marquis said as he closed his eyes and enjoyed the feeling of warmth from the fire. "Take off your boots and fetch a bottle from the case behind my desk," he said with a vague wave of his hand. "Bring two cups, deep ones," he added. "The news isn’t good."

"What news?" Sir Gilander asked as he wandered through the trophies that dominated half of Bors’ office to find a good bottle of wine.

It was hard to relax in the office that belonged to the Lothian Marquis, but that wasn’t an accident. Generations of lords had put their mark on the office, each one adding to the trophies displayed in the room.

Whether it was the skull of a horned demon with a large set of horns or the captured banner of the demon lord who once ruled over the very spot where Lothian City now stood, each of the trophies added an indescribable weight to the room that made visitors question whether they measured up to the standards of the men who came before them.

"Come read it for yourself," Bors said as he fished in the pouch at his waist for three small slips of parchment that had arrived earlier this morning. The cracked seals of black wax, stamped with the sigil of the Summer Villa were clear on each of them, as were the small marks next to the seal that would be known only to those who sent messages and the people likely to receive them.

Bors had read each slip of parchment several times this morning. More than enough times to commit every bleak word to memory, but he still couldn’t bring himself to speak them aloud, especially when he wasn’t entirely sure they were real. The words themselves never seemed to change, but sometimes, he was certain that the words were written in ink, and other times, they were written in the deep crimson of dried blood.

Last night, he’d dined with Isla. He’d complained about her mothering him and cutting up his food for him, and then he’d teased her about making a mess in bed... But it hadn’t been Isla. It had been the young Blackwell girl. Or a demon. He still wasn’t sure.

Now, when he received such shocking news, he wasn’t sure if he should trust his eyes or not. Perhaps the slips of parchment weren’t even real, or maybe they said something else entirely. Until he heard his friend read them aloud, he wouldn’t truly know.

"I’ve never seen you so spooked," Sir Gilander said as he set a pair of fine silver goblets down on the table beside Bors and filled them nearly to the brim. His eyes, however, remained on the three strips of parchment and the black sealing wax at the end of them.

Every territory that used messenger birds kept their own codes to ensure that messages were legitimate. Those codes included small dots around the seal and in the corners of the message, as well as color codes for the sealing wax itself.

In Lothian March, a message sealed in yellow wax was of the highest importance and needed to be rushed to the recipient as quickly as possible. Blue was used for common news, while green indicated a summons or a response to one. The code was simple and easy for the scribes in the coops to remember, even when it was changed every few years. But black wax on a message always meant the same thing across the whole of the frontier. Demons.

"Demon Giants." Sir Gilander read aloud from the first slip of parchment. "Gate breached. Walls falling. Sir Cathal.. Dead," he said as fingers began to tremble and mist collected in the corners of his vision. "Demon wolves in the bailey. All are dead or dying."

"The others are much the same," Bors said as he took a deep drink of the strong wine. Real, he thought. The messages were real. He didn’t know whether he should laugh or cry at that. Laugh that he’d thought himself mad, or cry for the loss? As he took another gulp of the strong wine, he felt like both were valid.

On other days, he’d sip slowly at such a fine vintage, but today, he just wanted to feel the burn of alcohol in his throat and the warmth it placed in the pit of his stomach. But neither the fire that warmed his toes nor the heady, fortified wine could banish the chill that gripped his heart when he read the message.

"I see," Gilander said as he briefly inspected the other messages. From the way they were written, it was clear that the nameless sender was increasingly afraid for his life as he wrote.

Closing his eyes, the old knight imagined what it must have been like at the Summer Villa. The gatehouse had been breached, and the strongest defender of the villa was already dead. Perhaps Sir Cathal had shouted orders to send the message before he died, or perhaps the nameless soldier had sent the messages on his own, but either way, the man must have rushed from the battle to the coops in order to get word out.

The first message was clear enough, with hurried but legible penmanship. The second one was shorter, hastier, and drops of ink had fallen carelessly on the parchment. By the time the third one was written, the demons must have been within the villa itself, likely trying to break down the door to kill the man sending messages, but the brave soldier had continued writing to his last moment, sending a final message that read simply:

’Demon giants killed all.’