(Zayden)
The meeting room was cold.
Not from the weather. The packhouse was always kept warm, boilers running day and night so the marble didn’t crack in winter. It was cold because six elders sat at the long table, faces carved from stone, and I sat at the head.
At no Isla.
There never was an Isla at this table. I made sure of it. She ate in the kitchen with the omegas. She slept in the east wing, far from my quarters. She walked two steps behind me at ceremonies, never beside me. I built that distance myself, brick by brick.
Now the chair to my right was empty. Serena had tried to take it when she walked in. Mara had cleared her throat until Serena moved.
“Where is the girl?” Elder Vaughn asked. He didn’t say her name. He never did. To him she was always “the girl,” like
