Elowyn sat hunched on the closed lid, the tin balm in one hand, the folded parchment in the other.

Her fingers were shaky from both the sting in her ribs and the storm in her head.

The moment the door had locked behind her, the weight she’d been holding since the dining hall shattered.

She couldn’t cry yet.

But she could write.

She pulled out the tiny enchanted notepad Mia had given her — and her thin ink pen.

She didn’t think. She just wrote.

Dear Mia,

I don’t even ...