Two weeks into her treatment, Clara woke abruptly in the deep hours of the night to the sound of frantic pounding against her chamber door.
She rose immediately, years of instinct honed from countless emergencies in the rogue territories propelling her out of bed before her mind had fully caught up with the urgency of the moment. A young guard stood in the corridor when she opened the door, his expression tight with barely controlled panic.
"The king," he said, his voice unsteady. "Something is wrong. Dorian sent me to fetch you immediately."
Clara did not waste time on questions, grabbing her satchel from beside the bed and following the guard at a run through the darkened corridors of the Citadel, her bare feet silent against the cold stone floors. She could hear the commotion before
