The crumpled ball of calfskin vellum sat in the center of the mahogany study desk like a severed tongue.
Elena did not touch it immediately. She stood in the dim, golden wash of the single oil lamp, her small frame wrapped tightly in the thick wool shawl she had stolen from Cassian’s wardrobe in Chapter 75. The air in the study was suffocatingly hot, thick with the heavy, chemical reek of the sulfur-grain candles and the bitter, acrid static of Cassian’s lingering Alpha panic.
From the courtyard below, the rhythmic *thud-thud* of the vanguard reinforcing the eastern ravine drifted up through the frosted glass, a desperate, militaristic pulse that timed the countdown to the solstice.
Cassian was gone, down in the armory checking the silver-flecks on the reserve spears. He had left the p
