A GOBLET SHATTERED INTO HUNDREDS OF SHARDS as it collided with the wall of stone inside Wellyn’s personal chamber. Tyjil was unmoved by the High Duke’s physical reaction to the news he had just delivered. “How can they all be dead?” Wellyn demanded. “Josi’ah must have been wrong. Mithi’ah was confused, clearly. His report had to be wrong!” Mawldra, Wellyn’s faithful hound, looked as agitated as her master. “A miscalculation somehow, your Grace,” Tyjil offered simply. “Miscalculation? I think you have a talent you’ve neglected to share before, Tyjil. You are quite gifted in understatement!” Wellyn paced as he stammered, nervously picking at the stubble on his chin. The miscalculation was his own, if there was one. “I sent three thousand men. Swords, axes, short-archers. All trained for dealing with wood-dwellers. Three thousand!” he screamed. “And Therrium yet lives!” Wellyn ceased pacing when he came to his desk. He reached out and leaned against the desk with his head slightly bowed.
