Nash’s pov
Outside, rain lashed against the small glass windowpanes, but the storm outside was nothing compared to the dark, suffocating rage boiling in my blood. I stood at my desk, my palms pressed flat against the polished wood, staring down at the scattered papers, maps, and intelligence reports.
Beside the map of the southern border sat a small iron key I had taken from Tabitha's room an hour ago.
Next to it lay a stack of thin, yellowed parchment letters, letters I had pulled from a hidden floorboard beneath her wardrobe while she was down in the washhouse.
My hands shook as I picked up the top letter.
My dark eyes scanned the messy, dark handwriting, every single word burning into my retinas like liquid fire. The ink carried the faint, foul stench of dark sulfur and dried rogue
