The Scattered Truth
The world narrowed to the harsh, penciled lines on the parchment. Althea’s own face, rendered in startling intimacy, looked up at her from the filth. Her hand, captured in the act of reaching for Kaelan’s cheek, seemed to tremble on the page. The artist’s skill was a violation, turning sacred secrets into vulgar fact. Kaelan’s hand closed over hers, not on the sketch, but on her cold fingers. “Don’t look,” he said, his voice ragged. “We need to burn them. All of them.” But it was too late for that. The image was seared into her mind. And more pressingly, Rourke was gone. The knowledge was out-of-the-box. “He’s running,” Althea whispered, the pragmatism of a courtier shoving through the shock. “He’s terrified. A scared man doesn’t think of copies; he thinks of escape or retaliation.” “H
- Writer
