ADRIAN
The next morning starts the way most of them do these days, quietly, tensely, and with Kelvin eating something he probably isn’t supposed to be eating on palace grounds.
“You know those are supposed to be for the infirmary, right?” I ask as he bites into a honeyed fig like it is his last meal.
He shrugs, unapologetic. “Then they should’ve hidden them better.”
I roll my eyes and push open the side gate toward the guest wing , which, for Darian, has started to feel more like a cell block than anything remotely hospitable. The guards barely look up anymore when we pass, just nod like they know we were too stubborn to stay away.
Kelvin adjusts the strap of the canvas bag slung over his shoulder. “How do you think he’s doing?”
“Worse than he’ll admit,” I mutter. “He’s been down th
