A low, keening wind rattled the palace battlements as the first light of dawn painted snowdrifts in pale rose. Nora Awen stood atop the eastern rampart, cloak drawn tight, watching courtiers bustle past below—armed men in sable cloaks herded elegant carriages into formation, while lantern-bearers guided exhausted refugees through the shivering gates. Winter's fury and plague's dread had transformed the capital into a city of ghosts and soldiers.
Footsteps approached behind her. She turned to see Elsa Whitlock, cheeks pale from fever and tears. In her hand, Elsa clutched a vial of amber liquid. “They insisted," Elsa said, voice trembling. “That I administer this to him… before the ceremony."
Nora's jaw clenched. “They want another serum injection." She swallowed anger. “His body can't tak
