The air in Maya’s room was different. It didn’t smell like the expensive, sterile cedar of my mother’s estate or the stale, alcoholic sweat of The Vault. It smelled like jasmine tea and old paper—the scent of someone who actually lived in their skin rather than just wearing it.
I stood in the center of her rug, feeling entirely too large for the space. My navy suit, which had felt like armor all night, now just felt like a costume. Maya was staring at me, her arms crossed over her flannel pajamas, though the initial terror in her eyes had softened into something resembling amused exasperation.
"You realize," she whispered, stepping closer to ensure her voice didn't travel past the heavy oak door of her bedroom, "that if my mother walks in here, there is no amount of 'Hollow King' charm
