The armor room smelled like leather, oil, and old fear.
Grace shoved a vest into my hands. “On. No arguments.”
“I’ve never worn palace armor in my life,” I said, staring at the dark, close‑fitting panels. “I’m not planning to start a trend.”
“This isn’t fashion.” She stepped close, eyes hard. “You walk into those tunnels without protection, you’re a liability. You go down, the king goes feral, the team loses three people trying to restrain him. Put. It. On.”
That, unfortunately, made sense.
I wrestled into the vest. It hugged my ribs, stopping short of my throat; thin, flexible plates slid over each other like scales. Someone had thought about how a wolf moved in close quarters.
Aria adjusted the straps with quick, efficient hands. “Breathe.” She tugged once more, satisfied when I di
