They could show it to Lucian as proof his Luna was reaching across the border to his enemies.
They could decide I’d be more useful as a hostage than as a correspondent.
“I’m reaching out to strangers who might kill me as easily as talk to me,” I whispered.
The thought should have made my hand freeze.
Instead, it clarified something.
“But staying here, waiting for my father’s next move, is a slower death,” I finished aloud.
Ink dried quickly in this cool room.
The words lay there, stark and black and final.
I blew on the page once, then folded it in thirds, the paper whispering as it bent.
Sealing it was trickier.
Wax would mark it as formal. Obvious.
I used a small smear of soft resin instead, pressing the edge closed with the side of my thumb until it stuck.
No name.
No seal.
