NARRATOR
The fire crackled in the hearth of Alexa’s room, throwing soft gold over polished obsidian. She stood at the window in a robe of violet and black, sipping wine made from crushed nightshade berries and something far more expensive—hope.
Thane stood stiffly behind her, silent, still under the binding curse, mouth sealed by invisible chains. The moment he’d defied her, she’d twisted the spell tighter. Now, he could speak only when she commanded him to—and he hated her all the more for it.
Alexa loved it.
She turned slowly to face him, tilting her head as if observing a piece of art she had personally defiled. “You miss her, don’t you?”
His jaw tensed.
“Mira,” she said, tasting the name like spoiled fruit. Your little puppet. She’s in the dungeons now, looks so broken. I almost
