He threw back the hood and the face beneath it was not a servant. It was Captain Brenn.
The sight cut the air like a blade. Brenn’s scarred temple flashed in the gallery light — the same watch captain whose voice had steadied the gates, whose men had answered orders for years. He’d been the image of the city’s defense, not its saboteur. For a sick beat I wanted to tell myself I’d seen wrong. Then his jaw tightened and he spit, and all the doubt left like a blown wick.
“You,” I breathed. The word was small but it carried the weight of betrayal.
Brenn’s mouth curved into a humorless smile. “You know me,” he said. His voice, the old steady voice all of us had trusted, sounded hollow up where it had once been firm. “I always loved a good surprise.”
“Why?” Rowan demanded, leaning over us de
