POV: Tristan
The morning light was cold and gray, filtering through the high narrow windows of the West Wing. I hadn't slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Rena on her knees in the dining hall, the scent of spilled ale and the sound of mocking laughter haunting the back of my mind. Vane was a low, constant vibration of fury beneath my skin, pacing the cage of my ribs.
They treat the moon as dirt, the wolf snarled. They see the vessel and ignore the light.
I found her in the lower scullery. The room was a humid, suffocating cavern filled with the roar of boiling vats and the sharp, stinging scent of lye. Rena was bent over a steaming basin, her small hands scrubbed raw as she worked on a pile of heavy, blood-stained gambesons from the morning’s training session.
She looked exhauste
