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It was too much entirely.

I folded the letter and set the small glass disc back over the paper. It sealed itself with a quiet click.

Then I bent over the mirror and looked through.

At first, the surface remained dark. Slowly, the image cleared until I was looking down into a room I recognized from plans, reports, and reflected glimpses over the years.

The Council chamber at the Iron Seat was long, high-ceilinged, and cold, with iron lamps hanging over a black table surrounded by nine chairs. Eight were empty.

Three gray-clad Wardens stood above one.

At the head of the table sat Aldric Vance.

He was still wearing his traveling coat, and there were pale streaks of dried salt along the sleeves from the crossing.

My letter was already in his hand.

I watched him break the seal and unfold the page. He read the answer once, and then his expression changed.

A small smile appeared.

It was not the public smile he used with diplomats, courtiers, or women on ballroom floors. This one was quieter and more satisfied.

"Well," he said. "There it is. A proof."

He placed my letter on the table and drew a sheet of heavy cream paper toward him. Most of it had already been written. At the bottom were the seals of the wolf and the dragon, with a single blank line waiting above them.

He dipped his pen and signed.

The document was upside down from my angle, but that had never stopped me from reading anything.

Warrant for the apprehension of W. Hale, Wildheart. Dead or alive.

One of the Wardens cleared his throat. "The Sanctuary of Ironmoor—"

"Holds on the island," Aldric said as he blotted his signature. "Only on the island, and only as long as she never refuses a lawful order of this Council." He set the pen aside. "So we can wait until she sets foot off the rock, or we can give her an order she cannot obey." His expression barely changed. "I prefer the second."

The Wardens stood and left the chamber one after another.

When the door closed behind the last of them, Aldric remained at the table, turning the broken mirror-seal between his fingers.

Then he said, "Hargrove."

A man stepped away from the far wall.

I had not noticed him in the shadows. He was broad and gray-haired, perhaps in his forties, with close-cropped hair and the still posture of a career soldier. His coat sat heavily across his shoulders.

I had never met him, but I knew the name.

Hargrove's signature appeared at the bottom of more Culling schedules than I cared to count, usually beside the designation of a squad whose youngest members had barely reached adulthood.

"Sir," he said.

"The warrant says dead or alive," Aldric said without looking up. "That language is for the Wardens and for the record." He turned the glass disc once between his fingers. "Alive, Hargrove. I want her alive. Is that understood?"

"Understood, sir."

"Good."