The V in the wood was small enough to be accidental. Small enough to be nothing. Cassia's thumb traced the groove again, the nail catching on the splintered edge.
It was a perfect, clean cut. Not the frantic scratch of a man packing in a hurry, but the deliberate mark of someone signing their work for emphasis.
Jeric entered without knocking, the door groaning open under his hand. He looked like he'd been wrestling with ghosts. The skin around his eyes was tight, his mouth a flat line of frustration. The scent of cold stone and old paper clung to him, mixed with the faint, metallic tang of sleepless nights.
"Nothing," he said, his voice rough. "Every clerk claims they saw nothing. Every guard swears their post was secure. The palace has suddenly gone deaf and blind."
Cassia didn't look up from the desk. She kept her finger pressed against the V. "They're not deaf. They're paid."
