Valeria Embercrown did not read letters.
She undressed them.
Wax revealed urgency. Paper revealed wealth. Ink revealed whether the sender feared being archived. Fold lines revealed who expected the message to be kept, burned, or shown to someone standing conveniently behind the recipient.
Words were only the last layer of clothing.
The invitation on her desk had arrived in white silk paper with gold edging and a fragrance so delicate it announced desperation. The Crest boy's supporters had sent three such notes this week. Lucien Drakeveil's faction had sent two, both too clean to be sincere. A minor Rovain cousin had sent one sealed with blue wax, which meant he wanted peace in public and leverage in private.
Cedric Valdrake's name appeared in seven letters without being written on any of them.
That was the first sign he had become interesting.
Interesting men were useful.
Dangerous men were better.
Wounded men wearing monstrous masks were intolerably inconvenient.
