The fortress did not sleep after the traitor was revealed. It breathed differently—uneven, wary, as if even stone could be unsettled by betrayal.
Aria felt it in every corridor she walked.
Whispers followed her like smoke. Not accusations—never that—but questions. How had they missed it? How had she missed it? A high-ranking Silvercrest warrior. Someone she had trained beside. Someone she had once trusted enough to turn her back on.
The memory burned.
Moonfire stirred beneath her skin, a restless current. It no longer flared in righteous bursts; it flickered in sharp, unpredictable flashes, reacting to every stray thought. Every doubt. Every memory of laughter shared with a traitor who had smiled too easily.
She stood in the courtyard at dawn, blade in hand, striking at a wooden post
