Valeria Embercrown's letter arrived folded like a confession and sealed like a threat.
Red wax held the black envelope shut, pressed with the Embercrown crest: a crown half-submerged in flame, every point sharp enough to look less like jewelry and more like a warning. The paper smelled faintly of rose oil, smoke, and expensive trouble.
Ren placed it on my desk with both hands.
Then he stepped back as if the letter might bite him.
Good instinct.
Embercrown politics usually had teeth. Sometimes literal ones, depending on which western contract was involved.
"It came through the eastern courier gate, young master," Ren said. "The courier wore academy red, but the horse had western ash on its hooves. Someone wanted the delivery to look official but not too official. Also, the envelope was warm. I thought that was unusual. Then I remembered House Embercrown exists, and I stopped being surprised."
I looked at him.
