The conference hall was too quiet.
Not respectful, quiet—waiting quietly. The kind that settled after secrets were laid bare and no one had yet decided who would survive them. Dust hung unmoving in the air. Papers covered the long table in uneven stacks. At the edge lay a cracked leather ledger, open, its final line blank.
Roland’s last line.
Alina broke the silence softly. “I think we can safely say Uncle Roland was a hoarder. Goddess.”
Amalia, instinctively defensive of her former mate, murmured, “Or he had a lot to say.”
At Roland’s safe house in the city. Amalia, Dorian, and Casius had pried up floorboards, opening hidden panels, reading letters never meant to survive—while Alina stood guard outside, watching the street and the shadows. They took only what mattered, careful to res
