Her pulse stayed slow; she had robbed dukes and diplomats under brighter chandeliers. Yet the hush of this house felt different: too still, as if the very walls strained to hear her. One breath, two—then her fingers brushed silk ribbon, rougher than the others, slicked with wax. She eased up a fist-sized scroll tied in black. The knot was sealed with crimson wax deep as coagulated blood, bearing a serpent coiled around a ragged banner. Not the gilded cobra of royal heraldry—this creature was ragged, fangs sunk into its own tail, stylized flames licking the edges. Ashborn. The sigil burned against her retina like a coal.
For a heartbeat she worried the wax might hold a rune—an explosive trigger, perhaps—but the seal felt cold and inert. Still, she didn't dare break it. Instead she slipped the scroll into the inner lining of her leather corset, fastening a tiny clasp so it wouldn't jar free. The parchment lay warm against her skin, a secret heartbeat.
