The Shadow Dome on the roof of the West Tower became a place of quiet, insulated warmth. Tonight, it felt like the inside of a pressure cooker.
Revas was pacing.
He didn't pace like a worried human, walking back and forth in a straight line. He moved like a trapped tiger, stalking the perimeter of the dome in erratic, sharp angles. His coat was discarded on the floor, his sleeves rolled up, revealing the tension in his forearms.
On the shadow-construct table in the center of the room lay the leather folio. It was open. The pages were blank, stripped clean of every signature and seal. Scattered across the parchment were the carcasses of thousands of tiny, black beetles. They had eaten the ink and then died, their purpose fulfilled.
"He laughed at me," Revas whispered. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact that seemed to physically pain him. "I walked in there, played his game, won his auction, and he handed me a box of bugs."
