Cassian's recovery chamber had become the command post for a war waged entirely within the borders of his mind. The reports from his Eyes of the Crown were his only windows to a world moving on without his permission, and each scrap of parchment fed the furnace of his paranoia.
Jorin, his face a mask of professional neutrality, delivered the latest dispatches. "Your Highness. Surveillance on the Lady Thorne confirms active preparations for departure. Her academy quarters are largely emptied. She has met with the headmaster for formal release. She is in frequent consultation with Lady Elara Frost and Sir Damien Ashford regarding travel logistics. Trunks are being secured."
Cassian, propped in a chair by the window—the one that didn't offer a view of the courtyard where Northern horses were being shod—clenched his trembling hands. The slight, persistent droop of his mouth twisted into a sneer. "Logistics. She plans her retreat with military precision. How convenient."
