The heavy parchment felt cold against Elena’s fingertips.
The golden wax seal of the Sunclaw Pack had been neatly cracked along its edge, but the letter inside remained undisturbed. Underneath the embossed hawk emblem, the ink was dark, precise, and written in an elegant, sweeping script meant for royalty.
Across the low oak table, Max poured two glasses of cold water from a glass pitcher. He set one in front of Elena, his knuckles resting on the polished wood for a second longer than necessary.
"Ethan Vance," Max said, his voice flat. "No relation to your maternal lineage, despite the shared surname. He inherited the southern gold mines three winters ago after his father succumbed to silver rot. A pragmatist. A man who calculates every breath in terms of political profit."
Elena picke
