The watch station at the northern headland lit its signal fire an hour before dawn.
Lysander was in the war room when the runner arrived, breathless and trembling. He had been there since midnight, unable to sleep, staring at the broken sword on the table. The jagged edge still caught the lamplight, still whispered its silent threat. He had been trying to trace the leak—going over the same names, the same connections, the same dead ends—when the door burst open and the runner stumbled inside.
"Signal fires. Three of them. The northernmost station. Ships approaching from the west."
Lysander was on his feet before the man finished speaking. "How many."
"The watchman couldn't count. He said the horizon was full of them."
The harbour erupted into controlled chaos.
