The morning after the attack smelled of iron and smoke.

The courtyard was still, except for the quiet shuffle of healers moving among the wounded, their hands and clothes marked in shades of crimson and ash. Broken weapons lay where they’d fallen, glinting weakly beneath the pale light.

Bella stood by the window of her chamber, her reflection ghostlike in the glass. She pressed a trembling hand against her belly and whispered, “You’re safe. I promise.”

Her words fogged the window, ...