Two days until the council meeting.
I carved the count into the stone wall with the tip of a practice knife. One line. Two lines. The mark on my wrist glowed in the low light of the training room.
69.
Darius hadn’t slept. The dark circles under his eyes looked permanent. He hadn’t left my sight since the throne room, true to his own rule, but the space he kept between us was careful and constant.
“Stop pacing,” I said.
“I’m not pacing.”
He was. Four steps to the weapons rack. Four steps back.
“The mark?”
I checked. “Still sixty-nine.”
“We lost two years yesterday from arguing in the hall.” He stopped and faced the wall. “So we don’t argue. We don’t talk. We don’t—”
I raised an eyebrow. “Good luck with that.”
Something in his expression cracked. For half a second the king mask
