Whispers are more dangerous than blades.
They don't leave scars, only shadows in the mind — shadows that spread until even the strongest begin to wonder if they're already doomed.
Lyra could feel those shadows following her through the halls of the Flame Court. Servants bowed too quickly, their eyes darting away before they lingered on her too long. Nobles smiled with stiff mouths and glassy stares, and the corridors smelled less of fire and cedarwood and more of roses, always roses, though none were in bloom.
Kael walked beside her, a wall of iron and flame, but even he could not burn away the silence that pressed against her skin.
That night, while the torches hissed in the rain-soaked courtyards, the nobles gathered without Kael's leave.
It was not in the great hall where councils were called, nor the war room where maps bled with lines of conquest. It was in a cellar beneath the wine vaults, damp with mildew, where whispers could not easily carry to loyal ears.
