A week of muted days had carved a hollow ache in Lina's ribs—hunger not for food, but for truth. Tonight, under a waning moon, she would risk everything.
She crept through the torchlit corridor of the east wing, the ceremonial dagger's hilt cold against her hip. Beneath her cloak, she carried a length of silver cord—stolen from her bindings and coiled like a noose. This cord, Bram whispered, would open a hidden door if tied just so.
Ahead, two Lost Pack guards lounged at their post, backs to her, eyes half-closed. Lina paused, counting their breaths: one… two… three… At the fourth, she slipped behind a tapestry and eased past, the scent of damp stone mingling with her racing pulse.
The corridor ended at a heavy wooden door. Drawing in a breath, Lina knelt and fastened a loop in the silv
