The tower breathed differently when silence returned. It was not peace—just the kind of hush that comes when the knife has been put away, but the wound still bleeds. Smoke hadn’t yet risen from funeral pyres, but the taste of ash lingered in every breath.
The place where Tarin—Sable, the Council’s hidden blade—had unmade himself still pulsed like an absence in the air. Even the stones seemed uneasy, as if they had hosted something they wished they could forget. Mireya’s bottle of warded ash sat at the chamber’s heart, sealed in wax and salt, glowing faint with the memory of its curse. No one touched it, but everyone looked.
Lena rose from the stone she’d slept against, though “sleep” was a kindness the night had not given her. Her crowns hung dim above her head, steady for once. The mark
