Midnight Crown
A map left by someone who knew how power moved when the doors were locked and the knives were out.
The paper rasped in her hands. Something slid free—a thinner insert, almost see-through with age.
She held it to the light.
A seal: two lions in black wax, one crowned, one broken. Old syndicate mark, from before Laev ruled, from before the Council pretended to.
Beneath it, four words carved with surgical intent:
Break what binds you.
Not an order.
A dare.
Eirwen let out a slow breath.
Outside, thunder rolled. Heavy. Patient. She slipped the letter into her jacket, pressing it flat against her ribs—not for comfort, not for luck. For resolve.