The call came during lunch.
Not the war room channel, not Aria’s wardline. Nolan’s personal messenger crystal chimed—the soft double-tone it gave for external medical contacts. He frowned, lifted it from his pocket, read the light pulsing in its heart, and went very still.
“Who?” Grace asked around a mouthful of bread.
“Deepwood,” he said. “Their healer.”
Aria’s brows rose. “They usually go through me.”
“Today they went through me,” Nolan said. “That’s not good.”
Kaiden’s chair scraped back. “Take it,” he said. “Out loud.”
Nolan set the crystal on the table and pressed his thumb to its facet, waking it. A small, shimmering image bloomed in the air above the wood: a woman in her late thirties, brown skin, dark hair braided back, moss on her shoulders, Deepwood sigil at her throat. He
