The walk to Vaeren's chambers was the longest of her life.
Every step was a betrayal. Every heartbeat was a hammer blow of guilt. The palace corridors, usually so familiar, felt like the winding passages of a tomb. The tapestries on the walls seemed to watch her, their woven figures depicting ancient battles and dead kings, their silent judgment a heavy weight on her shoulders.
Tysha trusts you. The thought was a relentless whisper in her mind. You are the only one.
Nyrielle pushed it down, locking it away in the cold, dark place where she kept the memory of the velvet ropes and the blood-flecked earrings. She was Lady Nyrielle Dareth, daughter of a general. She was the future bride of a prince. She was a survivor. And survivors did not have the luxury of friendship.
