The council chamber was now almost deserted, its air still heavy with the echo of raised voices. My palms were still tingling where I’d pressed them against the oak table to steady myself as the debate raged around me. I had kept them, yes, retained their brittle trust for another day, but the victory felt fragile, as if it were made of glass that could shatter at the slightest touch.
Wren hung back in a far corner, arms folded, silently observing me. His gaze was fixed, but unreadable, as it always was when he had too many thoughts to trust any of them aloud.
“They’ll follow, for now,” I said, finally breaking the silence. “But the fractures are there. I saw it in their eyes.”
Wren’s mouth tightened. “Fractures don’t worry me. Those who smile while sharpening their knives do.”
I exhal
