By morning the palace had grown a spine of whispers.
They followed us down the silvered corridor like wind through reeds—half fear, half awe—tripping from servant mouths and council doorways, skittering ahead of the steady drum of Lou’s steps beside mine. My hair was still damp from the Glitter Pool; I hadn’t bothered with a crown. The Heart Stone rested warm against my sternum, its orange-cream glow a quiet candle where last night it had burned like a sun.
Wolves flanked the great doors to the council chamber—Gatewatch survivors in dark leathers, Nesbit at their center like a boulder in a river. His eyes met mine, grave and bright. He dipped his head once, the kind of bow you make to an oath, not a person. The guards swung the doors and the sound of voices crashed over us.
The chamber
