Isla’s POV
The mansion slept like a beast—breathing slow, heavy, dangerous.
I waited until the grandfather clock in the main hall struck two. The sound rolled through the corridors like distant thunder, low enough that it wouldn’t wake the night guards if they were dozing at their posts. My bare feet made no sound on the cold marble as I slipped out of the small servant’s room they’d given me on the third floor. The door closed behind me with a soft click that felt louder than a gunshot in the silence.
I wore the same oversized tunic Rowan had lent me days ago—his scent still clung to it, faint mint and woodsmoke that made my chest ache every time I breathed. No shoes. No cloak. Just the thin fabric and the pounding of my heart.
Elias’s warning echoed in my head: Don’t go near the vaul
