The Council order smoked.
Not burned. Smoked a thin white curl that rose from the blood writing and didn't dissipate, hanging in the rain-cold air of the ruined penthouse like incense, like a ward line. Where the paper lay on charred wood that had been a glass wall an hour ago, the wood healed an inch, pale new grain appearing, then cracked again, as if it couldn't decide whether to live or die.
Elara stared at it. Black paper, white seal, and the new line that hadn't been there when Darius held it.
Elara Quinn and Elara Quinn.
Not mother and daughter. Two of her. In wobbly child handwriting, the second E backward, large letters pressed hard enough to indent.
Behind her, Kieran didn't move. He knelt on the floor, one arm locked around her waist, his other palm pressed to hers, blood
