The letter was gone—reduced to nothing more than a curl of ash and a bitter scent that clung to Rymora's fingers as she scattered the blackened remains out the narrow slit of her chamber's window. Her eyes darted left and right, her movements swift but silent. She didn't breathe until the last flicker of burnt parchment floated away into the wind, lost in the night.
She turned, wrapped herself in a plain gray cloak, and drew the hood low over her head. Her hands trembled for only a second before she clenched them into fists at her sides. No fear. No weakness. She couldn't afford it. Her heartbeat drummed against her ribs like a prisoner against a cell wall, but her face remained a calm, empty mask.
Rymora didn't speak. Couldn't speak. And most importantly—no one ever expected her to. A blessing that would serve her well.
