Mara
The council chamber empties slowly, wolves lingering in knots of conversation like carrion birds unwilling to leave a battlefield. I stay behind only long enough to note who whispers to who, who avoids whose gaze.
Loran, for instance.
He keeps his head bowed, a picture of injured loyalty, but I’ve watched him too long not to see the cracks. His movements are too careful, his face too composed. A man performing innocence is never innocent.
When he slips out the side door, I follow.
The air cuts sharp against my skin, heavy with the resin bite of pine. Moonlight filters through the canopy, pale strips on the ground like warning lines. Loran’s gait quickens the farther he gets from the hall, cloak swinging with a little too much purpose.
I don’t call out. If he is guilty, then star
