The defector had six hours' head start and a mouth full of secrets. Cheon Ma learned this at dusk, standing on the balcony of his mountaintop palace, watching the grass sea below turn the color of old blood. The man had served three years inside his inner sanctum. He knew the poison caches. He knew which sect elders had already been bought. If he reached the plaines alive, every kneeling ceremony Cheon Ma had spent a decade preparing would collapse before it began. He did not shout. He turned from the railing and walked into the war hall, where his twin guards were already waiting. Jwa-Woo held his outer robe. U-Woo held his sword. Neither had been summoned. They moved as one body split into two, finishing sentences the other had not started. "The east gate is open," Jwa-Woo said. "His horse is lame by now," U-Woo added. Cheon Ma let Jwa-Woo settle the robe on his shoulders and did not thank them. They did not expect it. He went to the ledge above the cliff and whistled once, low. The wyrm came up from the mist beneath the palace, black scales catching the last light, red eyes fixed on him. It coiled against the stone and lowered its head. Cheon Ma stepped onto its neck. The twins mounted behind him without a word. They found the defector at the tree line where the mountains broke into flat country. He was running on foot, one boot lost, a bundle of scrolls strapped to his back. He had almost made it. Another hour and he would have hit a patrol road. The wyrm dropped through the clouds and sheared the tops off two pines as it landed. The defector turned, saw the red eyes, saw Cheon Ma stepping down, and did not run again. He drew a short knife and set his feet. Cheon Ma respected that, briefly. "Kneel," Cheon Ma said, "and I will make it quick." The man spat. "Others know. I sent letters." Cheon Ma stopped walking. He studied the man's face for the lie and did not find one. He drew his sword and closed the distance in a single step. The knife never reached him. The head came off cleanly, and the scrolls came off with it. Jwa-Woo caught the bundle before it touched the grass. U-Woo caught the head. "Letters," Jwa-Woo said. "To whom," U-Woo said. Cheon Ma wiped the blade on the dead man's sleeve. The plaines wind pulled at his hair. Somewhere out there, sealed pouches were already moving between sect couriers, and he did not know how many, or to which gates. He had killed the mouth. He had not killed the words. "Back to the palace," he said. "Wake every spy we own before dawn." The wyrm lifted them into the dark.