The attack came eight days later, in the hour before dawn, when the palace was at its quietest and Wren was at her least prepared for it.
She had fallen into an uneasy rhythm since the conversation in her rooms, mornings spent enduring court etiquette lessons from a woman named Old Miren who clearly considered the entire assignment beneath her, afternoons spent walking the palace gardens alone because it was the only time of day the corridors were empty enough to think, evenings spent at dinners where Alaric had begun, cautiously, to talk to her about matters more substantial than politeness. She had not decided what to make of him yet. She had decided even less what to make of the fact that she had stopped dreading those dinners the way she had the first night.
She woke to the sound of
