Tyla’s POV
The palace is awake when we arrive.
Not bustling—braced.
Torches line the battlements, their flames sharp and restless, bending in a wind I can’t feel. The gates stand open, but every guard is armed, every posture tight with the kind of readiness that comes from too many unanswered questions and not enough sleep.
Word traveled faster than we did.
It always does, when fear is involved.
As Arthur and I pass through the outer archway, conversation dies mid-breath. Heads turn. Eyes widen. I feel it like a pressure change—attention slamming into us from all sides.
Not just him.
Me.
The Mark at my collarbone hums softly, no longer hiding itself. I resist the instinct to cover it. If this is the cost of rewriting the rules, then I will not pretend ignorance now.
Arthur’s hand
