The first light of dawn bled through the sheer curtains, casting pale rays across the marble floors of the east wing. Caelira stirred in bed, limbs aching and soul heavier still. Her silver hair, now streaked with darker strands since the poisoning, splayed over the pillow like tangled moonlight. Her eyes opened slowly to the ceiling she had come to hate—ornate, foreign, and suffocating.

Her body was sore.

Every part of her ached with the memory of the night before. Therion. His hands. His ...