(Winter's POV)
She paced her quarters—four steps to the window, four steps back—while Frost circled beneath her skin, restless and urging.
The direct approach, Frost pressed, claws kneading with impatience. Walk into Ember Soul. Let him see you alive before he can prepare lies. Let his heart stop when you enter the hall. Watch him choke on his own eulogy.
And then what? Winter stopped at the window, staring out at the darkening sky where the moon was already swelling toward full. He has guards. He has narrative. He calls me rogue, calls me mad, and I'm dead before I prove anything. Before I make him understand what he discarded.
You are not powerless.
I'm not stupid either. She turned from the window, resumed pacing with mechanical precision. Dion respects one thing: power sanctioned
