Elowyn hadn’t heard Baron Ortega speak to her in days.

Not a side-eye insult. Not a grunt of disapproval. Not a rough push to get her out of his way. Not even one of his famed, soul-pinching glares. Just.... nothing.

At first, she thought he was plotting something again. Then she thought he was sick. Then she wondered if he knew. If he’d found her flask the other night. If he could smell the lies clinging to her.

By Sunday, it was itching at her chest. She needed to do something so ...