I sat across from my father in the war room—what the elders liked to call the smaller council chamber when shit hit the fan. Papers covered the table, the soft rustle of shifting parchment the only sound accompanying our silence. I rubbed at my temple, exhausted and frustrated, because no matter how many angles we rechecked, how many files we combed through, nothing stuck.
Nothing linked Elder Raff directly to the assassination attempt. And even worse? None of the other elders I was quietly investigating gave me anything either. No sloppiness. No suspicious purchases. Just clean slates and smug faces.
"We probably need to just change the focus of the investigation," my father sighed, leaning back in his chair, shoulders sagging.
"I guess it means the mole was actually very thorough," I muttered, biting the inside of my cheek. "If I change direction, I need a reason to delay the closure. A real one. The other elders are going to push hard to bury this."
