Freya‘s pov.

Three Weeks Later

Three weeks was enough time for bruises to fade and for silence to grow teeth.

Dorian and Tiberius kept their promises—no tight leashes, no coronations, no ultimatums. They let me roam the keep and the city, visit the markets, observe drills, sit at long tables with pack lieutenants and kitchen staff and stonemasons. They agreed to every itinerary Cassian and I sketched, nodded at every “I need an hour” and “I’ll be late.” They ...