he inner wing woke this morning in its usual disciplined rhythm: the ember’s grey light slowly rose along the hearth, the water in the copper jug quivered only when I moved it, and the darkness of the wall panels swallowed the steps, as if every sound needed permission before entering the king’s circles. Cassian was already standing at the threshold, and with his usual short but complete sentences he anchored the start of the day: “We move with half-pots, the door answers the bell, we stay on this side of the armory’s threshold, we watch Darius’s movement, and if he comes toward us, we say his name.” Zoey busied herself behind my shoulder, moving as if she already knew in advance where the gesture I had not yet made would find its place.
In the first hours of the morning everything fell i
