“Name?" the caravan guard barked.
“Elara."
“Rank?"
“Healer."
The guard glanced at her scent band. Omega. His nose twitched with disdain. “Fine. But you keep to your wagon and don't slow us down."
“I'm not here to make friends."
He snorted and waved her through.
The royal relief caravan rumbled across muddy terrain, wheels creaking beneath crates of salves, bandages, and grain. Soldiers walked alongside, chatting, spitting, occasionally laughing at Elara's expense. She ignored them.
Instead, every night by firelight, she studied her father's genealogies. The pages were fragile with age, but the lines were unmistakable. The royal line—her line—ended abruptly after Queen Lysandra. Or so the public believed.
But tucked between family trees and records was a page marked only with a sin
