The letter is delivered swaddled in human flesh.
Held by a courier bearing the Marchelli sigil not tattooed but carved. Into his shoulder.
His mouth is sewn shut with silver thread.
A blood sacrifice for the wolves.
When Vera sees him, discarded at the gates in death throes and rigor, she does not scream.
She just stares.
Rael pulls her away before the stench can penetrate her skin.
She does not resist him.
Not yet.
In the war room, he drops the sealed letter onto the cold stone table like it burns him.
Because it does.
The black wax is laced with wolfsbane and something ancient.
It smells like decay and roses.
It smells like her father.
Vera lifts it with hands that no longer tremble, but her old spine cracks wide in her chest again.
She reads it in silence.
Twice.
The fi
