The palace had begun to whisper in my voice. Not the real one, the one that cracked with laughter when Harlan teased me or softened when Jaxon finally dared to ask for what he wanted. No. This was a polished imitation, smooth as silk and twice as dangerous, slipping through corridors and council chambers while I tried to sleep. The Wraith had learned fast. It no longer needed to stand in plain sight wearing my face. It could hide in shadows, mimic my cadence, borrow my scent just enough to fool the unwary, and leave behind doubts that festered like untreated wounds.
I woke to the sound of raised voices drifting through the open window of my chambers. Dawn had barely cracked the sky, pale gray light spilling across the bed where I had slept alone for the first time in weeks. The absence of warm bodies pressed against mine felt wrong, like missing a limb. I rolled out of bed, pulled on a loose robe, and padded barefoot to the gallery overlooking the inner courtyard.
