Rethik Myrvalis was one hundred and forty-seven years old.
He was a relic of a bygone, bloodier era. He had outlived his closest peers. He had outlived his most bitter political rivals. He had outlived the generation of intelligence analysts he had personally trained, and the generation after that. His body was a fragile collection of aches, his skin like translucent parchment, his joints protesting every movement. Yet, his mind had remained formidable. He was the last living member of the Gen 4 Myrvalis lineage—the ruthless, brilliant architects who had built the modern Ministry of Whispers out of the ashes of the old, disorganized spy networks that operated during the founding wars.
He sat at his desk in the deepest sub-level of the Ministry, staring at a stack of paper.
The paper was the problem.
