DYERThe silence after the runner arrives is heavier than any battlefield I’ve stood on.

I’m still close to Aislyn, her warmth pressed into my side, the echo of vows barely settled in my bones, when the runner finally drags enough air into his lungs to speak. His voice comes out hoarse, scraped raw by distance and dread.

“It’s… it’s Elliot,” he manages.

The name lands wrong. Like a stone thrown into still water.

My first thought, my foolish, instinctive one, is that he’s escaped. ...