Lucian did not know the archer’s hands.
He knew their work.
Three black feathers and one white, shaved narrow at the base and tied with waxed red thread.
Old Ravencrest fletching.
He turned the shaft near the stove. The feathers cast thin shadows across his knuckles, and the heat loosened the smell of resin from the binding.
Wet wool steamed near the stove. Blood, smoke, and the bitter medicinal paste on Marcus’s bandage crowded the small room until the air tasted stale.
“The man who used this pattern died in the war,” he said.
Marcus sat on the bench with one hand near his sword. Blood loss had drained the color from his face. His attention had not dulled.
“Name,” Evelyn said.
“Darian Halvern.”
The broken Halvern seal lay on the table.
Evelyn looked from the crest to the bolt.
