The ink on the narrow parchment strip did not smudge under the grease-heavy air of the fish market cellar, but it seemed to hold the cold, clinical finality of a death warrant.
Elara stood rigid beside the smoking ruins of Haddon's private transmitter, her burned fingers resting inches from the jammed brass gear-train where her stylus remained wedged like a broken bone. The yellow flame of the single tallow candle gave a final, desperate leap before drowning in its own wax, leaving the room illuminated only by the faint, rhythmic crimson blinking of the short-circuited terminal node.
