In the morning, the palace smelled like rain that hadn’t fallen yet.
Storm brewing, nowhere near the windows.
Mara noticed it before I did. She set a mug in front of me, eyes narrowed.
“What did he do?”
I blinked blearily. “Who?”
She made a face. “Don’t play dumb. The air is wrong. Thicker. Either your king yelled at someone, or the Council finally tried to bite him back.”
“Both,” I said, wrapping my hands around the coffee. “Apparently one of the elders resigned in protest. ‘Compromised beyond salvaging’.”
Mara snorted. “Finally, a compliment.”
My son shuffled out of his room, hair a haystack, Wolfie dragging by an ear.
“Morning,” he mumbled. “I dreamed about pancakes.”
“That’s either prophetic or wishful thinking,” El said from the kitchenette, digging through cupboards. “Place
