The underground city slept lightly.
Even after midnight, lanterns continued to burn along the stone streets while a handful of merchants packed away their stalls. Couriers crossed narrow bridges with satchels slung over their shoulders, physicians emerged from late-night house calls, and workers disappeared into homes carved neatly into the cavern walls.
To an outsider, it looked no different from any ordinary town.
The messenger kept his head lowered as he hurried through the streets.
His orders had been simple.
Leave immediately.
Deliver the letter before sunrise.
Tell no one.
He reached the northern tunnel without incident, passing two sleepy guards who barely spared him a glance. A few minutes later, he climbed the final flight of stairs hidden beneath an abandoned warehouse and emerged into the cool night air above the capital.
He smiled to himself.
No one had followed him.
Behind him, the old florist quietly closed the concealed entrance.
"Should we stop him?" he asked.
Kira stood in the shadows across the street, her eyes following the messenger as he disappeared into the darkness.
"No."
The florist looked at her.
"If that message reaches the wrong hands—"
"It will."
He frowned.
She stepped onto the empty road.
"And that's exactly where I want it to go."
The messenger crossed the market district at a brisk pace.
Most of the stalls were already closed, though one elderly fruit vendor remained, slowly gathering the last of her baskets.
As the messenger passed, she accidentally dropped a single green apple.
It rolled into the street.
The messenger barely noticed as he stepped over it.
The old woman sighed dramatically and bent to retrieve it.
Only after he disappeared around the corner did she straighten.
Without looking up, she quietly turned the wooden sign hanging above her stall.
The painted flower that had faced inward now faced the street.
A young boy sweeping the opposite sidewalk glanced at it for only a second before calmly continuing his work.
Five minutes later, he abandoned the broom and jogged toward the western district.
The messenger reached the northern stables.
"I need a fresh horse."
The stable owner scratched his beard apologetically.
"I'm afraid the last healthy mare left not ten minutes ago."
The messenger frowned.
"I don't have time."
"I've one old gelding."
The stable owner shrugged.
"He isn't fast."
Grinding his teeth, the messenger accepted.
The horse limped ever so slightly as they left the city gates.
Neither man noticed the stable owner's daughter quietly hanging a blue lantern inside the barn.
Half an hour later...
A merchant caravan blocked the eastern bridge.
One wagon had lost a wheel.
Drivers argued loudly while workers struggled to move several heavy crates from the road.
The messenger cursed beneath his breath.
"How long?"
"An hour!"
"I don't have an hour!"
The merchant only spread his hands helplessly.
"Then you'll have to use the southern bridge."
The messenger turned his exhausted horse around.
Hidden behind one of the wagons, a courier quietly mounted another horse and disappeared into the darkness.
By dawn, the messenger had changed horses twice.
Crossed three villages.
Paid two ferrymen.
And spoken to more strangers than he could remember.
Each delay had seemed ordinary.
Each inconvenience had made perfect sense.
Not once did he suspect they had all been waiting for him.
As the first light of morning painted the sky, he finally reached the western estate belonging to Prince Julian.
Relief washed over him.
He had made it.
A servant opened the rear gate after a brief exchange of passwords and quickly ushered him inside.
"I have something for the steward."
"Follow me."
Moments later, the messenger stood inside a quiet study.
The steward accepted the sealed letter without a word.
"You weren't followed?"
"No."
"I made certain."
The steward nodded before breaking the wax seal. His eyes scanned the contents once.
Then a second time.
A faint crease appeared between his brows.
The messenger shifted uneasily.
"Is something wrong?"
The steward didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he held the letter beneath the morning light.
The wax had been melted.
Carefully.
Expertly.
Then sealed again so perfectly that only someone accustomed to handling official correspondence would notice.
His expression darkened.
"Interesting."
The messenger's face paled.
"What is it?"
The steward folded the letter shut.
"You truly believe..."
He looked at the exhausted man.
"...that no one followed you?"
Miles away, beneath the capital, the old florist watched as another courier quietly returned through the flower shop's hidden entrance.
Without speaking, the young man placed an identical copy of the intercepted letter upon the council table.
The seal was flawless.
Even the paper had been folded exactly as before.
The florist smiled.
"It never left our hands."
Kira picked up the copied letter but didn't open it.
She already knew what it contained.
"The message wasn't important."
The florist blinked.
"It wasn't?"
She shook her head.
"No."
She walked toward the giant map covering the wall and placed a single black pin upon Prince Julian's estate.
"I wanted to know where it was going."
The old florist stared at the pin.
"So..."
"Kira's voice remained calm.
"...now we know."
She reached for another pin.
This one she placed inside Wildflower itself.
"There is a rotten root."
The florist's expression hardened.
"We'll remove it."
"Not yet."
"He betrayed us."
"And he'll do it again."
Kira looked at the two pins connected by an invisible line.
"If we cut the root today..."
"...we'll save the tree."
She paused.
"But we'll never learn who planted the disease."
Silence settled between them. The florist slowly understood. She wasn't hunting a traitor anymore.
She was following the infection. Kira looked once more toward the map. A memory surfaced from her first life.
Every investigation that failed. Every witness who disappeared before she arrived. Every secret meeting that ended in an ambush.
Every piece of evidence that somehow found its way into the wrong hands.
She had believed her enemies were simply one step ahead. And that is why her inocnece was never proved.
Now... She finally understood why.
Someone had been opening the door for them long before they ever knocked.