The generational transition within the Ministry of Whispers had not been accompanied by bloodshed. There were no midnight assassinations in the corridors, no poison slipped into the wine of Lyss's old guard.
Sera Myrvalis simply sat behind the massive, black-stone desk in the Director's office, wearing her unadorned gray archivist robes, and starved her political rivals to death.
A heavy oak door swung open, and three senior operatives marched into the office. They wore the hardened leather armor of the Ghost School, their faces tight with aristocratic indignation. These were Lyss's most trusted loyalists—men who had spent the last decade hunting imaginary Korthane sleeper agents while completely ignoring the eastern grid.
