The palace had never been quieter.
Even the guards moved with unease, their boots muffled against the marble floors, their gazes darting toward the Queen's wing but never lingering too long. Something had shifted since her return from the ruins. The scent of incense no longer masked the air's tension. The flames in the lamps burned lower, as if the palace itself feared what lurked in its heart.
Isla hadn't slept in three days.
The ring lay on her desk, wrapped in linen, but she could still feel it pulsing through the cloth. It called to her in faint whispers, too soft to be words, yet heavy with meaning. She wanted to throw it into the sea, to bury it deep beneath stone, but she couldn't. Not until she understood why it still lived.
Luca had insisted on stationing guards outside her chambers. "If that thing can do what you said," he'd told her, "then we can't take chances."
