The message arrived folded in the shape of a sparrow, sealed not with wax but with stitched red thread. No crest. No name. Just a single line embroidered across the wing:
"We do not burn quietly."
I found it tucked into the inner flap of my cloak after the council meeting, the same cloak I'd removed hours ago and laid across the foot of my bed. Someone had come into my chambers while I was gone. That alone should have unnerved me.
Instead, it thrilled me.
Marcelline examined the letter by firelight that evening, turning it over in gloved hands. "Threaded code," she said. "Old resistance trick. Not used since the Lorent Rebellions."
I raised an eyebrow. "And why would the Lorents reach out to me? They haven't left their northern stronghold in years."
"Exactly," she murmured. "Which m
