The embers of the supply depot fire were still glowing in the distance, casting a faint, eerie orange light over the Thompson camp. The wind had picked up, howling through the valley, carrying the smell of smoke, burnt pine, and victory.
Carlos stood by a small, hidden fire pit at the edge of the camp, far away from the celebrating soldiers. He held a carrier pigeon in his hands, its small heart beating rapidly against his palm, a frantic rhythm that matched his own. He had tied a tiny, rolled scroll to its leg—a message meant for Prince Liam.
"It is done. The arrow found its mark. The Grand Duke has fallen."
He released the bird. He watched it spiral up into the dark, cloudy sky, disappearing toward the south, toward the capital, toward his reward.
When the bird was finally out of sight, swallowed by the night, Carlos turned back to the fire.
He took a big gulp from the wine skin on the table. The cheap, sour wine burned his throat, his hands were shaking violently.
