The tower room still smelled of woodsmoke and honesty the next morning. We had not left until the torches guttered out and the first gray light crept through the arrow slits. No one had slept much. The shared vision had lingered in us like a fever dream that refused to fade. I had walked back to my chambers alone, the weight of ten confessions pressing against my ribs. They had spoken their fears aloud. I had spoken mine. The circle had touched, breathed, felt. And nothing had broken.
Yet.
The first day of the month felt fragile, like the thin skin over a healing wound. I woke early, the sigils on my skin warm and faintly luminous even in the dim light. My scent filled the room stronger than ever, a constant reminder that the power Ian had awakened was not going back to sleep. I dressed simply—white linen, no shoes, hair loose—and stepped into the corridor before most of the palace stirred.
Jaxon was waiting outside my door.
