CLARA'S POINT OF VIEW
The marble hall outside the throne room smelled of ash, blood, and fresh rain.
Valerius held my hand in an iron grip as we marched toward the high golden doors. His black velvet coat was torn where the crossbow bolt had pierced him, but his skin beneath was smooth, unblemished, and humming with the residual heat of my royal blood.
Every step we took together sent a soft, harmonious pulse through my chest—the invisible thread of our newly awakened bond pulling us closer with every heartbeat.
Down on his knees, chained in heavy silver links between six royal guards, Lord Malakor let out a wet, rattling laugh.
You think you have won, little maid? Malakor spat, blood dripping from his cracked teeth onto the polished floor. You stand there wearing silver silk, thinkin
