Flynn returned to his chambers beneath the veil of midnight. The banquet still echoed through the marble halls of Winterbell Palace, but he had long since left the dancing behind.
He bolted the door, dropped the outer robe, and sat beneath the flickering candlelight. In his hands, the sealed letter burned with quiet weight.
He hesitated only a second before breaking the wax.
Inside was a map hand-drawn, precise and a short message:
The Ember Hand's next movement begins at the border outpost of Velmire. A shipment bearing the sigil of the Winterbell treasury has already been corrupted.
Signed, S.
There was no doubt. It was a lead. One that could not be ignored.
Flynn studied the map. Velmire sat between Winterbell and the old lands of Elaris precisely where supplies passed uninspected.
And Khalid had managed the royal convoys for weeks. Was it coincidence?
Or careful placement?
The next morning, he summoned Elior.
Elior arrived swiftly, still dressed in his tailored riding coat, eyes sharp and alert. "You received something last night."
Flynn handed him the letter.
The viscount's expression darkened as he read. "Velmire… and with treasury seals?" He set the parchment down. "This is damning if true. But if it's forged"
"Then someone wants me to turn on Khalid," Flynn finished quietly.
Elior leaned forward, voice lower. "Do you trust him?"
Flynn didn't answer. Instead, he whispered, "Do you trust me?"
The silence between them was heavy.
"I trust you, Flynn," Elior said. "Even when I don't understand you."
Flynn looked at the map again. "Then come with me."
They departed under the guise of a survey mission—just Flynn, Elior, and a handful of guards he personally vetted. Khalid wasn't informed. Neither was the queen.
As their horses galloped through the early frost of Winterbell's outer lands, Flynn stared out at the snow-capped horizon and remembered another time.
Another land.
He remembered Caelan's bloodied boots treading through frozen border passes. He remembered a younger Khalid laughing beside a campfire, then later, plunging a blade into his back.
How many masks could one man wear before he became the mask?
They reached Velmire after two days of hard travel.
The outpost was quiet. Too quiet.
The guards saluted Flynn nervously. "We weren't expecting"
"You weren't meant to," Flynn said, dismounting.
Elior gave the signal, and the soldiers spread out. They began inspecting the convoy crates lined up for departure marked with royal insignias, but…
"Here," Elior called. He cracked one open.
Inside were military rations. Normal.
But deeper, beneath false bottoms, were sealed vials ink-black, with faint sigils etched in Elarian script. Dangerous relics. Forbidden ones.
Flynn's blood ran cold.
"It's real," he murmured.
"And now we have proof," Elior said grimly.
Flynn stood in the center of the courtyard, the wind tugging at his cloak.
This wasn't just treason.
This was war in disguise.
And Khalid's name was written all over it.