Clara did not sleep the first night after Dorian's visit, lying awake beside Leo's small, warm body while a hundred conflicting thoughts circled through her mind without settling into any clear answer.
She thought of the courtyard, of the years of hiding, of the fragile peace she and Leo had built inside Mira's cottage walls. She thought too of the desperation she had seen flicker across Dorian's composed face, the weight of a dying king resting on shoulders that had clearly never expected to carry such a burden. By dawn she still had no answer, only exhaustion and a heart that would not settle.
By the second day, exhaustion had worn her thin enough that Mira finally sat her down at the kitchen table, two cups of tea steaming between them, and refused to let the conversation wait any lon
