(Jaxon's POV)
The palace had started to feel like a mirror maze at night. Every reflection looked like Nalia, every shadow whispered his name, and I couldn't tell anymore which heartbeat in the bond was his and which was the lie trying to wear his skin. Three days since the Wraith first showed its face in the gallery, and the circle had tightened like a fist around itself—everyone watching everyone, hands brushing more often, eyes searching for flickers in the silver sigils that might betray the impostor. We slept in shifts now, someone always awake, someone always touching, as if constant contact could prove reality better than words.
I hated it.
I hated how much I needed to prove I belonged.
