The rest of the day dragged like molasses-slow, heavy, too heavy.

Leya did not eat.

Could not.

Not because there was nothing to eat—but because she could not assure it was safe.

Every bite is a risk. Every shadow, a killer. Every glance from a servant, a secret message.

She walked barefoot across her room in stealthy steps, ticking off the planks on the floor from the force of habit. She had done it before, the all-nighters in solitude. It was how she did not ...