While Rianor was still immersed in the flurry of his school project, in a quieter wing of the castle, Roland Sudrath was facing the arrival of a guest he had never expected.
That morning, a thin veil of steam rose from his porcelain cup. Roland had just poured his coffee—pitch black, bitter, without a single grain of sugar—when a peculiar fluttering of wings caught his ear from the window. The sound was specific: flap, flap, flap—feathers slapping against the air in a quick rhythm before stopping abruptly with a soft thud.
A white pigeon landed on the cold stone windowsill. Its feathers looked ruffled—a clear sign that the small bird had just completed a grueling journey across mountain ranges and vast oceans. At its leg, a tiny silver tube glinted in the dawn light.
