The long, thin night following the vote was marked by a humming of fatigue rather than serenity.
Elaria had trouble sleeping. The crown, if it could be called that, was a circlet of silver thorns that had been hammered into shape and was resting on the table close to the bed. In the moonlight, it glowed dimly, a silent reminder that power was never kind.
Beside her, half-awake, was Draven. The pale ridges of scorched flesh that traced the kiss of the Rite's flames down his back were still healing. She stroked the lines of one scar, feeling the trembling of his breath beneath her palm.
He whispered without opening his eyes, "You're awake."
“So are you,” she said.
His mouth curled into a tiny smile. "It's difficult to fall asleep when I can sense your thoughts."
With a sigh, she leaned
