Aven had a reputation for being ruthless, which he found mildly insulting. He wasn't ruthless. He was simply efficient.
At thirty-two, he was the youngest senior analyst in the Ministry of Whispers. He had made his name reorganizing the northern supply lines during the Frostmarch campaign, identifying and excising three layers of corrupt quartermasters without shedding a drop of blood. He just adjusted the paperwork until the corruption starved.
Now, he was sitting in a cramped, windowless office two doors down from Vrenn Myrvalis, staring at a diplomatic file that made no sense.
"Read the attaché files for Halvern and tell me what's wrong," Vrenn had said that morning, dropping the folder on Aven's desk. No context. No background. Just a test.
Aven opened the file. It belonged to the Korthane Attaché, a mid-level diplomatic functionary representing the Arbiter's interests in Ashenveil. The man had been stationed in the capital for thirty-six years.
