The night before the Council trial, under a bloodless, frozen moon, Ian was summoned.
The summons bore no seal, no signature.
Only a small strip of black parchment, pressed into his hand by an unseen messenger as he patrolled the silent corridors of House Elarin's estate.
"Come to the Crooked Spire before the third bell. Come alone."
Most men would have dismissed it as a trap.
Ian was not most men.
Without word or hesitation, he cloaked himself in shadow and slipped into the dark.
---
The Crooked Spire stood on the western cliffs of Esgard, a broken, forgotten tower leaning like a drunkard toward the river.
Once a lighthouse, now a ruin.
Its stones were blackened by storms, its halls hollowed by the howling winds.
Ian climbed the crumbling stairs, senses sharp, every nerve taut.
She was waiting at the highest landing.
Mistress Thalia Virex — the Ninth Chair of the Council of Esgard.
Spymistress.
Keeper of Secrets.
