Morning light came through the guest-wing window pale and thin.
I had slept little. The memory of the garden—the shared silence, the sudden flare when Alaric caught me—stayed under my skin like a second pulse. I washed, dressed in the same simple clothes I had arrived with, and opened the door.
The guard outside straightened. Two palace servants stood farther down the corridor, speaking in low voices that stopped the moment they saw me.
One of them, a young woman who had brought water the night before, offered a quick bow. “Good morning. Breakfast can be brought to your room if you prefer.”
“I’ll walk,” I said. “Thank you.”
The moment I stepped into the main gallery the air changed. Conversations cut short. Eyes followed me. A pair of council aides near the portraits turned their back
