The “secure room” wasn’t a cell.
Points for that.
It was an entire suite on an upper floor: sitting room, two bedrooms, small kitchenette, bathroom big enough to swim in. Clean lines, soft gray walls, windows warded to within an inch of their lives.
It smelled like nothing.
No history, no lives lived here. Just stone and polish and the distant echo of palace scent.
“This was for visiting dignitaries,” Grace said, setting a duffel by the door. “Now it’s for people we’d like to keep breathing.”
Mara snorted. “Nice to know we’ve been promoted.”
She stood in the middle of the sitting room, arms folded. Being back under this roof was turning her spine into tempered steel.
El dropped another bag on the couch. “At least the bathtub isn’t trying to murder us with rust.”
My son drifted tow
