Vaelith Crownhold stood in his private chambers, staring out at the darkened training yard below. The oil lamp behind him cast his shadow long across the floor—a dark, stretching thing that seemed to move independently of his body.
The hooded figure from before materialized from the corner, silent as smoke.
"It's done," the figure said quietly.
Vaelith didn't turn. "The letter?"
"Delivered. Slipped under the private's door two hours ago. No one saw."
"And?"
"He burned it. Almost immediately."
Vaelith's lips curved slightly. "Good. That means he read it. Understood it. And chose to destroy the evidence rather than share it."
"You think he'll act on it?"
"He already is," Vaelith replied. "Fear doesn't announce itself with trumpets. It creeps. It whispers. It plants seeds of doubt that grow in silence."
He turned from the window, hands clasped behind his back.
