The Lost Heir
Three sharp raps, the kind that didn't apologize for the hour.
Alec was at the door before the third one landed.
Fallen stood on the step, her coat still on, her breath visible in the cold morning air. Behind her the sky was barely light, the tree line dark against it, frost on the ground. She looked like someone who had not slept either and had no intention of discussing it.
"I have something," she said.
He stood back and let her in.
She was at the table before he'd closed the door, her hands flat on the wood, a folded paper already open between them. A rough sketch — corridors, entry points, a perimeter marked in quick certain lines.