The message from Maren arrived at the waypoint two days before they reached Silver Hollow.
Not the usual format. Not the regular briefing she sent every four days, which was organized into sections with headings and specific action items. This was a single page. One name at the top. No heading.
He read it once.
He read it again.
The name was someone he had trusted. Not Maren-level trust, not Aldric-level trust, but operational trust, the specific kind you extended to someone who had been inside the structure for years and had given no reason for doubt. A person who had attended briefings. Who had been adjacent to conversations.
Who had been inside the room for eighteen months of the case being built.
He sat with the name and the cold feeling that was not surprise and was something worse than surprise, which was the specific cold of: I gave them access and they used it.
He read the single page again.
He put it down.
He looked at the tent wall.
— — —
