(Vladford POV)
The report arrives folded twice and sealed once.
That alone tells me it isn't gossip.
Jacob doesn't meet my eyes when he hands it over. He just places it on the table between us like something sharp, something that might cut if touched too carelessly.
"The route's secure," he says. "No alterations in supply lines."
I nod.
Then he hesitates.
"There's… additional information."
I look up.
He exhales slowly. "Imperial correspondence. Council minutes. Intercepted through neutral channels."
My fingers close around the parchment before I tell myself not to rush.
The seal breaks easily.
The words do not.
Lady Rosaline De Falon has taken residence within the Crown Prince's chambers for the duration of winter, as per council recommendation, in the interest of imperial stability and succession clarity.
I read it again.
Not because I don't understand—but because some part of me refuses to accept how easily the words settle into place.
Residence.
Duration.
