Amy Stone
Sleep refuses to come that night. Every time I close my eyes, I see Peter—tied, bleeding, calling out for help. My father doesn’t bluff. If he said Peter was “resting,” it only means one thing—he’s dying.
Before the first streaks of dawn touch the sky, I slip out of bed. Kael’s steady breathing echoes behind me. I pause for a second, my heart heavy. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “But I need to deal with this myself.”
Quietly, I close the door and make my way down the dim hallway, barefoot, careful not to wake anyone. My destination is Kael’s hidden room—the one he thought I didn’t know about.
I key in the password I once glimpsed while he was distracted. The lock clicks open. Cold air rushes out from the secret chamber.
Weapons line the walls like an art colle
