KELLY THOMPSON'S POV
The parchment felt heavy in my hands, the inked words a grim portent that clouded the serenity of my study. Reports—confidential and unsettling—whispered of Paul Biansky's clandestine meetings with The Black Faes. As I reread the missive, a chill slithered down my spine, and I tightened my grip on the paper, crumpling its edges. My heart, usually so steady and assured, now thrummed with a disquieting rhythm.
"Send for Paul," I commanded, my voice echoing off the stone walls with more strength than I felt. The guards nodded, their eyes betraying their concern before they turned and left, swift as the northern winds.