Thread of Glass
He needed to know how to read a footnote at eleven o'clock at night when his eyes were burning, when nobody was watching, and when his career was on the line.
He had passed.
Zoya stood up, pulling her dark robe tight around her waist, and walked over to her desk. She flipped open the heavy leather binder, the white pages of the core case file glaring up at her under the small desk lamp.
She didn't look at the clock again. She simply read, her silver pen tracing the lines of text, her mind locking into the parameters of the coming war, until the view outside her window slowly bled from black to grey.
Across the city—same night, same hour—Liyana had just fallen asleep.
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