The message did not arrive through official channels.
That alone told Seraphina everything.
It lay on her desk at dawn, placed with deliberate precision—parallel to the edge, centered between her morning reports and the unused seal knife. No ward had been disturbed. No sigil had flared. The protective lattice woven into the chamber remained perfectly intact.
Which meant whoever had left it had not forced entry.
They had been allowed.
That was the most unsettling part.
Seraphina did not touch the page immediately. She stood several steps away, arms folded loosely, studying it as one might study a blade left on a table—acknowledging that it existed, measuring its intent.
The vellum was pale, smooth, undecorated. No crest. No insignia. No identifying mark of origin. The ink was dark an
