The cooing of pigeons filled the canopy, such a soft pulsing that seemed at odds with the tension thick enough to choke the air. From the branches of a hidden rookery, a network of timber and rope woven into the ancient boughs over three patient years, a man emerged. He moved with the quiet grace of a forest cat, cupping a grey-winged messenger in his calloused hands.
Slowly but firmly.
The birds were trained to get used to human's touch so they did not even move when the hands were on them.
There were dozens of these across the princedom.
Hidden deep within the green cathedrals of the forest, these stations were manned day and night welcoming all the news that they brought. The more time passed the more Alpheo realised his network of agents was a jewel, how else so many small units could communicate so far away from each other?
"Your Grace." The man knelt, extending the tiny, ink-smudged cylinder he had retreived.
