"My old messenger," he whispered, voice raw with surprise he rarely allowed himself.
The owl blinked once—slow, deliberate. Then it stretched a leg, revealing a scroll no longer than Vostyr's finger, tied with silver thread so fine it shimmered like captured moonlight. The bird did not so much as ruffle a feather when he crossed the floor in two silent strides, nor when his calloused hand untied the cargo.
He turned the parchment in his palm, heart tapping harder. Wax, pale as bone, sealed it—a crescent moon bisected by a jagged lightning stroke. He traced the sigil with a thumb, feeling the indentations left by an old signet ring. Impossible. That seal had been shattered on a battlement the night Wraith‑Company burned. Yet here it was—whole, mocking the ruin of its owner.
