The primary rule of the Ministry of Whispers was absolute reliance on the network. A spy without a handler was a ghost; a ghost without a tether became a liability.
Lyss Myrvalis had cut her tether.
She hung perfectly still in the rusting iron rafters of the Ashenveil Canal District's lowest sub-level, ninety feet below the grinding, automated sluice gates of the capital's industrial waterworks. The air was suffocatingly damp, reeking of oxidized iron, stagnant canal water, and the sharp tang of aetheric runoff from the drop-forges far above.
She was entirely alone. She had not filed a mission brief. She had not requisitioned backup from the Inquisitors. After the disastrous loyalty audit that had nearly broken her own institution a year ago, Lyss no longer trusted the network. The Korthane asset was still out there, hiding in the bureaucracy, successfully funneling the Arbiter's laundered silver into the capital.
