The garden still smelled of smoke.

The guards had doused the sigils, but the air carried a metallic tang, sharp with the memory of nearly spilled blood. Charred petals clung to the marble paths. The sunlight that broke through the archways did nothing to soften the scene—it only gilded the ruin in gold.

Elaria stood in the center of it all, arms folded, her expression a mask of cold control. Inside, her pulse still raced.

“Confirm it again,” she said. Her tone left no room for ...