The pen tapped a staccato on his ribcage as he replayed council scenes: Elowen's measured smiles, Velroth's florid complaints, parchment rustling like restless birds. He pictured those same nobles tasting this honey report—sweet on the tongue, sharp in the afterthought. A good distraction.
Rodion's next words slid in with deliberate gravity.
"Spies before sabers," Mikhailis intoned, dragging fingers through messy curls. "I know."
A low chime rang out—clean, finishing—like a teacher setting down chalk. Overhead, rune-lamps dimmed half a shade, mimicking dusk even though night already pressed the windows.
