Page 32 of The Last Rose of Ashwood

He snorted softly. “That answer becomes less convincing every year.”

She did not respond, mostly because he was correct and correcting him would require energy better spent pretending otherwise.

The company continued through the valley. No one mentioned how quiet Seren had become. That was one of the small mercies of soldiers who had survived long enough to understand that some silences deserved not to be interrupted. The younger ones laughed again after a while, drawn back into the earlier conversation by Roran’s willing abuse of the truth regarding Seren’s worst tactical decisions. She let him. He exaggerated only somewhat, and morale mattered more than her dignity.

The courier arrived just after midday.

A lone rider approached from the southern road, Coalition colors fastened at the shoulder, horse flecked with foam and mud. Seren saw the man long before he reached them. So did half the company, which said something about their nerves. The rider sat badly enough in the saddle to suggest exhaustion rather than training, but he carried the sealed dispatch case as if it contained a venomous snake. That was never a good sign.

He reined in before Seren and bowed from the saddle. “Council response, General.”

Seren accepted the letter and noted how relieved he looked to be rid of it. Another bad sign. Important letters were rarely pleasant. Pleasant letters usually took their time. The seal bore the Coalition crest in blue wax. Official. Prompt. Too prompt.

She broke it with her thumb and read while the company slowed around her. The unease arrived almost immediately. Not because of what the letter said. Because of what it did not.

The Council requested expanded descriptions of the symbols. Exact sketches if possible. Measurements. Stone samples. Clarification regarding whether the markings appeared before or after the disappearances. Any evidence of pre-Coalition construction beneath the temple. Names of personnel who had entered the lower chamber. Whether roots had made direct contact with the carvings. Whether any known Ashwood insignia had appeared at the site.

Seren read the document a second time.

Not a single question had been written about the missing villagers. No inquiry regarding survivors. No request for civilian protection. No concern for nearby settlements, no grief for the vanished, no mention of the children whose toys remained behind in empty houses. Only symbols, ruins, and records. As though the people had already become secondary to whatever existed beneath them.

Her jaw tightened. Roran noticed, naturally. “Bad news?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether incompetence counts as bad news anymore.”

He guided his horse closer. “What did they say?”

Seren handed him the letter. He skimmed it. Frowned. Then frowned harder. “That’s—”

“Go ahead.”

“Fucked.” He read a little farther, his expression darkening. “They seem very interested in the symbols.”

“Mm.”

“And not especially interested in anything else.”

“Mm.” The slight vocalization was all she could muster between her clenched jaw and pressed-thin lips.

Roran folded the letter with more force than necessary. The silence between them stretched as they both thought the same thing and neither liked it. The courier shifted uncomfortably nearby, wisely saying nothing.

Seren looked at him. “How quickly did they respond?”

The courier blinked. “Three days, General.”

Seren had not even received confirmation that all her own supplemental reports had reached the capital before this response came riding north. Which meant the Council had either anticipated her questions before she asked them or already possessed enough knowledge to respond before receiving the full account.

Neither possibility comforted her. Suspicion, once planted, grew roots. And roots were becoming a recurring problem.

“Who drafted this?” Seren asked.

The courier hesitated before he realized his mistake. “Chancellor Morvek’s office, General.”

“Morvek.” Roran’s voice carried little affection.