Seraphine's POV
The next days brought no drama—only slow, stubborn healing. The bandage stayed cleaner. The salve cooled the skin without burning. Zoey checked on me each morning, making sure I drank enough. Margot worked in the kitchen doorway, assigning shifts while keeping one eye on me as if she could sense my movements without looking directly.
Elias visited every other day. He checked the wound, confirmed it was improving, and reminded me—in the same dry tone—not to lift anything heavier than a shoulder. Alexa said nothing. Her silence lingered in corners and followed the halls. When she passed the door, the air tightened. Margot announced, to no one in particular, that the kitchen had no space for “rules invented in the dark.”
Guards kept the corridors. The steward collected name
