Seraphine's POV
The healer’s fingers brushed once more along the edge of the new bandage before he stepped back and extinguished the lamp. The silence in the room felt like scalded sloe—bitter, steadying. Beyond the door, footsteps clicked on stone. Someone gave an order, others answered. I had been counting those sounds since I arrived. No judgment. Just rhythm.
Two knocks on the frame.
The outside signal.
“Come in,” I said, pulling my legs under me as I sat on the edge of the bed.
The steward entered first—white-haired, back straight, carrying a lacquered tray. On it lay a thick sheet of marbled paper, sealed with wax. A crescent moon, a pine branch… and a claw mark. Pack mark. My muscles tightened.
“An invitation for tonight,” the steward said, bowing. “A ball in honor of His Maje
