The throne room still smelled of blood.
It clung to the tapestries, seeped into the cracks of marble, and lingered on the iron edges of Kael's voice. Serrin's death had been quick, but not clean. No execution in the Flame Court ever was. Even now, as servants scrubbed the floor until their hands blistered, dark stains shimmered under torchlight—ghosts that water could not erase.
Lyra sat on the dais, but she could not meet anyone's eyes. Not Kael's, not the courtiers'—especially not the nobles who whispered behind jeweled fans. Their voices were low, careful, but the venom in them was unmistakable.
"She stood beside him when he struck."
"She did nothing to stop it."
"What did Serrin know that made him dangerous to her?"
The words pricked at her skin like thorns.
