The world was upside down.
Aerion Virell's body hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud, mud splashing across his once-pristine robes.
He choked on the rainwater pooling around his face, tasting iron and grit. Somewhere behind him, the towering silhouette of Castle Darlayne glowed with firelight—his castle—its great spires now belching black smoke into the stormy sky.
The scent of burning oil, timber, and stone clung thick in the air, and the screams had already started to fade, leaving behind only the crackle of flame and the hush of falling rain.
Aerion tried to rise, but a boot pinned him down, grinding his face into the muck.
He growled through clenched teeth, "I don't know who you people think you are, but if you believe the king will stay silent—"
"We're aiming to get his attention, actually."
The voice was smooth, refined.
