The long, cold rectangles of sunlight had vanished from the floor, replaced by the deep, velvety blue of dusk. The silence in my empty quarters was absolute, broken only by the distant, fading sounds of the Academy settling into night. Sir Damien's briefing had imposed a structure on the impending journey, but one final, unpalatable duty remained before I could claim this day—and this life—was done.
I lit a single candle at the bare desk. Its flame was a small, defiant sun in the vast dark of the room. I took out a sheet of my best parchment, the Thorne rose watermarked into its surface. I unstoppered the inkwell, the scent of oak gall and iron sharp in the still air. The present was the last piece of correspondence I would ever send from this place, and it was to the man who saw me as a ledger entry.
