Lara stumbled through the pavilion gates just after midnight, one guard dragging the other's limp body behind him. Blood soaked her cloak and streaked her face. The surviving guard—Joren—had a fresh gash across his sword arm.
They had taken the shadow-veiled route Clara prepared, but Varyn's men had been waiting. One arrow, one scream, and the third member of their small party was gone. No dramatic entrance. Just exhaustion and rage.
Elizabeth met them in the main hall, moving like an old woman. The false labor two days earlier had left her hips aching and her steps careful. Clara stood beside her, veins of shadow crawling up her neck and along her jaw.
Her left eye was still milky, the pupil barely visible. The three of them looked at Lara and the body on the floor, and for a long second nobody spoke.
"Documents," Lara said, voice hoarse. "Now."
