By the time the sun finally dragged itself over Ashcombe’s spires, the air had gone from chilly to crackling—you could almost taste the nerves. Replies had started as a trickle but now? Full-on flood. Every note, a possible friend or a pain in the ass. Wren’s riders rolled in, boots caked with mud, dumping sealed letters in Harroway’s hands like they were passing out flyers, not fortunes. Some notes were all stiff promises, others just dripping with ifs, whens, and little poison-dipped threats. Wax seals popping sounded like gunfire in the stillness.
I fanned the letters across the table, like I was about to deal a hand in some high-stakes, probably rigged card game. Couldn’t tell which was worse—loyalists or the desperate ones. Gideon didn’t bother to wait for an invite, just leaned in c
