Ashen Ford, Serewyn, Draem, Marleon, League… He strung them together like beads on a wire. A war being written before it's fought. He could almost see Elowen hunched over a map, her hand steady, her eyes distant. The thought made his chest tighten again.
She carried all this without me.
He clenched his jaw, forcing his mind to settle. No use drowning in guilt. Work first, regret later. He inhaled through his nose and let it out slow. The breath came out steadier than he felt.
From his coat, he drew a small, coin-thin slate. Its surface gleamed faintly under the candlelight, etched with runes so fine they looked like scratches. He crouched beside the low bench in the hall, where servants often left their shoes, and slid the slate beneath. Then, with a piece of stylus chalk, he drew three short marks—one for route, one for time, one for silence. Rodion would understand the message when his systems recovered enough to move freely.
