Alaric’s answer still echoed in the quiet library.
“All of them.”
He stared at the painting a moment longer, then at the pendant resting against my throat. The realization settled across his face in slow, hard lines.
“The warning,” he said. “Do not trust the men wearing silver. My own security force wore silver that night. Every guard in the convoy.”
I closed my fingers around the pendant. “She was telling you not to trust your own men.”
“It is possible.” His voice stayed low. “I never connected the words to them. I thought she was speaking of the attackers. Now I am not certain of anything from that night.”
He turned toward the door. “There are fragments of records still held in the restricted military archives—injury reports, the first search orders I gave, the names of the guards
