The letter arrived in the quiet of the afternoon, carried on the wings of a wind that seemed older than the stones of the garrison itself.
Shina held it as though it might burn her fingers, tracing the edges with careful, almost reverent fingers.
It was small, deceptively simple, but it carried a weight that threatened to unseat the very balance of her days.
The letter bore only one thing: a date, precise and unyielding, three days prior to the end of the month, and a summons to a place unnamed, to a man unnamed, yet familiar in a way that made her pulse shiver in recognition.
His scent lingered on the letter—sandalwood and something sharper, like the edge of a storm.
Her eyes lingered on the inked number. Time itself seemed to slow, stretching seconds into minutes, a cruel mirror of the tension knotting her chest.
