Cassian did not like reports that arrived without context.
They were rarely wrong.
But they were often incomplete—and incomplete truths had a way of doing more damage than lies.
The parchment in his hand was short. Too short.
No embellishment. No speculation. Just observation.
That alone told him the scout had not written it lightly.
Cassian read it again, slower this time, as though the meaning might shift if he gave it enough space.
It didn't.
Prince Dane had traveled south.
Not to a court.
Not to a stronghold.
To Khar Mireth.
Cassian's jaw tightened.
He lowered the parchment slightly, his gaze drifting to the open window before him. The wind carried nothing unusual—no sign of what that name represented, no hint of the kind of thing that waited there.
But the weight of it settled anyway.
Khar Mireth was not a place men visited.
Not if they had a choice.
And Dane—
Cassian exhaled slowly.
Dane always had a choice.
Which meant this wasn't desperation.
