That night, just before the dinner bells rang through the halls of my Capital Mansion, a messenger hawk descended from the darkening sky, its wings cutting through the humid spring air with practiced grace. The poor creature looked personally offended by the weather, and honestly, same.
The Capital's version of spring was a lie—thick, suffocating humidity clung to everything like an unwanted relative, turning silk into torture and breathing into a chore. The hawk landed on the marble railing of the garden balcony where I stood reviewing territory reports, its golden eyes judging me with unnecessary intensity. Tied neatly to its leg was a scroll sealed with dark blue wax I knew instantly. Viking.
What's with the hawk? Why not magical scroll?
Ignoring it, I didn't realize I was smiling until my fingers hesitated before breaking the seal.
Lady Seraphine,
