THE WHISPERS IN THE BARRACKS The air in the guardhouse smelled of stale sweat and cheap ale. It was a heavy, thick smell that usually meant the men were tired and restless. Perfect for what I needed to do.

I sat at the end of a long, scarred wooden table, watching a young guard named Kael scrub a stain off his chest plate. He was barely out of training, his face still holding that soft look of someone who thought being a guard was about honor and shiny medals.

"He’s got you working the double ...