Cale Wilos had just sat down at the massive dining table in his new Thrakian mansion for breakfast when Zeya burst through the double doors at the far end of the hall. Her persona radiated alarm, on the verge of panic even, something he had never seen her give in to. Her usually pale skin was flushed bright red in distress, and he watched the muscles contract under her uniform like tightly knotted cords. “Cale, we have a problem,” she was on the brink of breaking into a jog trying to close the distance between them. “Yes, Consul.” He cursed softly. “This is not good. We have to find them.”