Sylric hated letters.
He hated writing them. Hated reading them. Hated carrying them. Hated when people gave them meaning they didn't deserve.
But he liked being alive.
So he wrote three anyway.
One for a broker in Virecross, coin-heavy and discreet. Another for a smuggler contact who knew how to whisper near the Lorienya border. The third he folded twice, didn't sign, and burned the edges on purpose.
That one would go to a man Sylric hadn't seen in four years.
And hadn't missed once.
He pressed his thumb to the wax seal and let the flame singe just enough to carry scent.
Not perfume. Not magic.
Blood. Real. Dried. Ground into ash.
That was the marker.
He stood from the flat stone he'd used as a desk, shoved the notes into a tight-wrap case, and stepped out into the wind.
Ashwing circled above again, wings slow, almost lazy. A child's pet, some said. Sylric knew better. That thing wasn't a mount. It was a promise with claws.
