"There's someone in the estate," she said, her voice lower than it should've been but firm. "He's not a soldier. Not a servant. He said he was a patient, but he wasn't. And he left this."
She walked forward and placed the torn note on the map beside Lucien. His gaze locked onto it. Valen's Crossing, a name he hadn't heard in years. A smuggling route. A forgotten place on the fringe of their borders, mostly used by outlaws and spies.
"Where did you find him?" Rowan asked, already moving.
"The northern wing. A room that looked like it hadn't been touched in years. He was calm. Too calm."
Lucien didn't say anything. He was staring at the parchment like it had just altered the course of everything he thought he understood.
Then: "Did he see you take it?"
"I don't think he cared."
"That's worse," Lucien muttered.
