In another, quieter part of the vast castle—far removed from the banquet halls and bustling corridors—lay the healers' wing. Here, the air was heavy with the scent of crushed herbs, faint antiseptic smoke, and the faint metallic tang of old blood that clung to the walls like a ghost.
In the dimness of a corner, a young woman stood still, almost invisible beneath the folds of her dark cloak. Her hood was drawn low, shadowing most of her face. The flicker of a wall torch brushed her pale chin in faint orange.
Liora waited. Patiently. Quietly. Every beat of her heart was deliberate as she kept her gaze fixed on the far end of the corridor.
Any moment now.
She knew the guards' routine here—had studied it in silence for weeks. At the right moment, the current pair would abandon their posts to change shifts, giving her the smallest, most precious window of freedom. A window she would have to seize without hesitation.
