I was sitting in my office causally skimming sources through my crystal with practiced boredom, I almost ignored the incoming message.
Almost.
"Some kids have challenged the Forgeheart Crucible."
I scoffed aloud.
Another pack of spoiled nobles playing at some unknown trial. I was already dismissing it—already forming the polite refusal I'd send back—when my eyes drifted lower.
One line.
One name.
Luca Valentine.
I stood up so fast my chair skidded back into the wall.
My breath hitched, heart slamming against my ribs as memory surged forward unbidden—the church, the blood, the boy who didn't tremble.
Once, I was just another field reporter—Farrel Ronfield, one of hundreds chasing scraps of scandal and half-true rumors for a byline that barely paid the rent. Nobody seemed to remember me. Now I sit in a private office with a reinforced communication crystal, a title engraved on the door, and a reputation built on a single name I never seem to escape.
Luca Valentine.
