Between Hour 708 and Hour 712, the heavy bronze tablet pressed cold against Deacon Lucius Vane’s chest.
Dark arterial blood smeared across the etched imperial seals, sticking to Lucius Vane’s wool coat with a greasy chill.
Beside the medical cot, Sera Thorne knelt in the shadows of the soundproof canvas screen. Her jade spear rested across her knees, her eyes fixed upon the dying messenger’s face.
“Speak clearly,” Sera whispered, her voice low and sharp. “Who sent you? What is this roster?”
The courier coughed, his body arching in a spasm of agony. Black foam bubbled past his lips, his pulse thumping like a dying bird against his ribs.
“My name... is Jun,” the young clerk wheezed, his vision fading behind a gray veil. “Junior archivist... Third Censorate Bureau of the Iron-Crown Capital.”
He gripped Vane’s wrist with bony fingers.
“The White-Lotus Academy,” Jun rasped, each syllable costing him a piece of his soul. “It is not a school. It has never been a school.”
