Clap. Clap. Clap.
Xavier spun toward the entrance, his hand instinctively reaching for the dagger at his belt. The journal pressed against his ribs like a guilty secret, its unnatural cold seeping through his shirt.
Duke Cedric Haverford stood framed in the doorway, his silhouette cutting a sharp line against the corridor's amber light. Two guards flanked him—not Hearthome soldiers with their flame insignia, but men in unmarked steel whose faces remained hidden behind visored helms. The Duke's dark hair caught the volcanic glow from the chamber's crystal matrices, and his blue eyes held the satisfied gleam of a chess master who'd just achieved checkmate.
He wasn't surprised. He wasn't angry. He was smiling.
"Thank you, Thornslayer." Haverford's voice carried the smooth polish of aged wine, each syllable perfectly measured. "I had my theories about what our dear High Burner was hiding down here, but I needed confirmation."
