"Draft a warning," he said.
The spymaster's eyebrows rose.
"To whom?"
Kael hesitated.
Then said it.
"To Silvarion," he said. "To Queen Elowen."
The spymaster's pen paused.
"You're going to admit—"
"I'm going to warn her," Kael snapped.
Then his voice softened, decision tired.
"I fed a fire thinking it was a fence," he said. "Now it's in the house."
The spymaster watched him.
"Write the truth," she said.
Kael's jaw worked.
"I will," he said.
And for once, he meant it.
On the river‑side drainage tunnel, Cerys moved like a shadow with a blade.
She had five with her.
Not the loud ones.
Not the eager ones.
The quiet ones. The ones who could hold fear in their throat and still walk.
The valley above them was already stirring.
Not panic yet.
Just movement.
Lira's notes had gone out under simple orders.
Farmers gathering bundles.
Mothers pulling children close.
Old men pretending they weren't afraid.
