The letter arrived sealed with crimson wax—its mark unfamiliar, ancient. A thorn tightly coiled around a crescent moon.
Frankfurt broke the seal silently, his eyes scanning each word slowly, deliberately. With every line, his grip on the parchment grew tighter. When he finally looked up, his expression was unreadable.
"They want to parley," he said quietly. "A summit between House Eldemar and… the Pale Thorn."
Aaron frowned, confusion knitting his brow. "That makes no sense. Why would the Thorn ask for a meeting after trying to kill us in Takoba?"
Frankfurt tossed the letter onto the table with a soft thud. "Because the outcome is already decided. It's not a summit. It's a trap."
---
That night, Aaron stood again in the map room—not searching for history or symbols, but for opportunity.
His gaze lingered on the place named in the letter: Ravengarde Hall. An abandoned estate perched on the edge of Hollowmere.
"Too remote," he muttered to himself. "Too exposed. No proper guards, no lines of communication… and they know it."
Nearby, Ashen was sketching aimlessly with charcoal. He glanced up. "So… don't go?"
Aaron's eyes sharpened. "No. We go. But not on their terms."
---
The plan was crafted carefully, shared only with Ashen.
Using his Ash Memory, Ashen replayed the courier's route—the man who had delivered the letter.
Through the echo in the ash, Aaron saw the truth: The courier's steps were rehearsed, too precise. His uniform was cleaner than a city rat's teeth. Worst of all, his shoes bore dust from nowhere near here.
An imposter.
Aaron smiled grimly.
He gave the courier exactly what he wanted—a message from Lord Pierce agreeing to bring "the Child of Sky Flame" to Ravengarde Hall in three days.
---
Three days later, under rain and the cover of wind, a convoy of Pale Thorn agents arrived at Ravengarde Hall.
But there was no child.
Only an empty carriage and a cage filled with burning straw shaped like a person.
As the cage opened, flames erupted into a glowing glyph—branding every Pale Thorn agent with a magical mark.
Frankfurt's seal.
---
Back at the Pierce estate, Aaron stood on the western balcony, watching smoke curl far in the distance.
Frankfurt approached, arms crossed.
"You baited them," he said, voice calm but not unkind. "I didn't expect you'd move so fast."
Aaron didn't look at him. "They had to believe they'd won. That's when they slip."
Frankfurt paused thoughtfully. "You see now—the game isn't about strength."
Aaron nodded, eyes cold as ash. "It's about misdirection. Information. Fear."
"Good," Frankfurt said. "Then you're ready for what comes next."
Aaron turned fully, voice low and certain.
"Let them hunt smoke. I'll give them fire."