Seraphine's POV
The healer’s fingers brushed once more along the edge of the fresh bandage, then he stepped back and snuffed out the copper lamp. Shadows softened. The room tasted like scalded sloe: bitter, but oddly calming. Outside, boots clicked on stone, a short command snapped, then echoes faded down the corridor. I kept counting them—no judgment, just keeping time.
Two knocks on the frame.
“Come in,” I said, pulling my legs under me on the bed.
The door opened. Not Darius, but the steward: white-haired, straight-backed, carrying a lacquered tray. On it lay thick marbled paper, sealed in wax. A crescent moon, a pine branch, a claw-mark.
Pack mark.
“An invitation for tonight, my lady,” the steward said, bowing until his spine cracked. “A ball in honor of His Majesty. The list of
