Zara Fen POV
The digital clock on the penthouse nightstand glows a steady, mocking red: 2:14 AM.
Then, it dies.
The entire suite plunges into a heavy, suffocating blackness so sudden it feels like a physical blow. The soft hum of the climate control cuts out, replaced by a stark, freezing silence that rolls in from the glass balcony doors.
I freeze in the center of the plush rug, my breath catching in my throat. My fingers, still stained with faint silver-ink lines from the workshop, instinctively curl into fists.
Click.
It’s the unmistakable, heavy mechanical snap of the electronic deadbolts on the penthouse doors disengaging. Lir’s foolproof containment perimeter, the one he swore would keep me hidden away like a shameful secret until the High Council left, just bled their power in
