Leah
The moment the older woman’s words hung in the air—“Master Jafar’s lost weave”—the room seemed to tilt. Every pair of eyes snapped to me, curiosity sharpening into something almost predatory. My pulse hammered in my ears. I’d been careless. Too good. Too fast. One slip, and the whispers would turn into questions I couldn’t answer without unraveling everything.
Before anyone could press further, a sharp cry sliced through the ballroom from the terrace doors.
“Fire! Fire!”
Heads whipped toward the windows. Thick black smoke billowed up from the gardens below, curling against the night sky like ink spilled across stars. Gasps rippled through the crowd. Ladies clutched their skirts and each other; a few shrieked. Chaos bloomed in seconds.
My first instinct wasn’t the wreath, or Ella,
