James submitted his third report to his Valdris handler on a cold morning in late autumn, using the dead drop location he'd been assigned during orientation. A hollowed brick in the academy's eastern wall, accessible from the maintenance corridor that most students never noticed existed.
The report was three pages long. Detailed and comprehensive.
And it made him want to vomit.
He'd documented Sparkshire's first-year political factions with clinical precision. The nobles' alliance—who was involved, what their objectives were, how they coordinated exclusion campaigns against other recruits. The foreign students' integration difficulties.
Everything his handler had requested.
Everything that felt like betrayal with each word he wrote.
James pressed his forehead against the cold stone wall after depositing the sealed report, breathing slowly, trying to convince himself this was still manageable. Still justified.
