The chamber was drenched in silence, save for the ragged pull of Donato's breath.
His lids fluttered, his eyes adjusting to the dim golden glow of the oil lamps.
Princess Elowen's face blurred in and out of clarity, her tears glistening like gems against her porcelain skin.
"You are alive," she whispered, her voice a trembling hymn of relief. She pressed her palm against his cheek as though grounding him to the earth. "The gods have not taken you. They returned you to me."
Donato tried to sit up, but pain lanced through his ribs, searing and raw.
He bit back a groan, his pride refusing to let her see him broken.
His mind, though clouded, was sharp enough to remember: the book, the map, the curse.
"Princess elowen," he rasped, his voice was faint, no louder than a ghost's breath. "Listen carefully…"
She leaned closer, desperate to catch each syllable.
But instead of spilling his truth, he closed his mouth, his jaw tightening.
